


Risk of Rain

by Euregatto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Child Abuse, Porn With Plot, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Euregatto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Project Freelancer was doomed from the start, and likewise, so were they.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anything is Worth Something

**Author's Note:**

> In which South and Wash learn a lot through a relationship that was supposed to be a one night stand turned into something more, and everything else just gets worse from there.

Smoking should have gone out of style decades ago, yet jejune people with pretty eyes and little legacy still wish to die sooner. Of course measures have been taken to reinvent the product, reduce its chemical intake, compose it entirely out of several hundred types of plants crushed into a stick no longer than her index finger. It leaves the same effect, though. A dire sense of burning. Cripples the lungs with heat and ash and ire. She smokes because the searing in her chest distracts her from her job, from a reality of deceit defined by a mysterious organization and a childhood of trauma and bruised knuckles. All she gets out of either is a dreadful notion of existence. Like a dash of stardust in the gravity of a sun.

He finds her in the lounge seated backwards on a chair, arms folded idly and a freshly lit cigarette dangling from her fingertips. It’s dark in the room, the lights are automatically turned off to reserve the ship’s power since it operates on a 24-hour internal cycle, and essentially it’s “night” now. He isn’t typically active during this time. But she always, always is. And he knew that, knows this.

She doesn’t flinch when he enters, has her attention prioritized on the viewing window. There’s a noticeable gash in the lower plush of her lip from the sparring session with Texas that left both Dakotas flat on their asses and the newcomer on the Director’s podium of gold. It had been almost comical to witness such events. Yet at the same time, he pities her, knows none of them could ever hope to match up to the Adonis in black. For South, however, it isn’t about besting Freelancer Tex.

Even though Tex has single-handedly knocked South off the alpha board entirely.

He struggles to keep a secure position in their ranks, recognizes her morose. South has always been a pain in his ass in the field when they somehow get paired to run simulation ops, but she’s one hell of a soldier and a fine partner when one reads between the lines. Their teamwork is fractional compared to her coordination with North, however, but it’s enough. Gets them through the day.

He supposes he likes that about her. But then again, Wash supposes a lot of things.

He almost finds her fascinating, similar to the science reports he adored writing in high school. Helps himself to picking apart every detail, every curve in her figure and every emotion riding up under her pallid skin. Admires the way she kicks and punches and shoots with rage and power and grace. It’s entrancing, mystifying; she barrels into her problems and doesn’t stop for anything nor anyone in her path, threatens to ram the very cosmos down with the strength of a collapsing star. When he winds up on his back in training, he considers just how breathless she leaves him. And in a way, he’s drawn to it.

Finds himself returning for more.

She’s brash in a uniquely feminine way, spits out insults with the venomous force of lightning and keeps in stride like a rushing wind. Her very being is pain in pleasure, nails that carve leagues of fire into flesh and eyes that glaciate ravines of oceans. She’s abstract in thought yet obtuse in emotion, yells about beating people into the floor and takes the time to relay information about insects from field guides. Has a cute dragonfly tattoo on the right of her neck and a rigid scar across the left of her face.

And more often than not, he’s grateful she’s an open book. Because her expressions are persistently, if not permanently, settled into various forms of a disinterested frown. Anger, joy, sadness; seeping away into nothing more than lips pressed pliantly together taking a drag of a cigarette. Illegible, precise, hardened. Her smile is rare, but he’s seen it before. Once. When she was comforting Carolina after agent Michigan’s untimely – and honestly, very gruesome – death in the field, attempting to keep her chin up about it.

Ugh, that smile. Goddamn _gorgeous_.

He gets uncharacteristically giddy at the mention of it, which is always _bad_ because his excitement registers as a tremulous voice. He’ll stutter, quiver a little bit, wring his hands together like he’s about to explode. But even though he’s always been fundamentally ill in regard to the mention of this rooted habit, he’s overheard her off-handed comments in conversations with other Freelancers. “I think it’s cute,” she tells York. “He’s just excited, let him have his fun,” she says to North. “Fucking dork,” she utters to CT.

He swallows drily, notices they’re alone in the darkened lounge. Never expected anyone this late into the night. She’s got her eyes fixated on the cosmos drifting by, on the maw of the Phoenix galaxy below and the rim of the constellations above. Shows no general interest in the view. Can't seem to look away.

Pulls up a chair to sit beside her, one leg casually bent over the other. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Tex’s scores.”

 _Nailed it_. He pretty much sucks at everything, according to literally everyone, but when it comes to talking to romantic interests he just gets significantly _worse_. The actual fucking king of crippling dating disabilities. He’s never been any good – at all, whatsoever – with smooth-talking, casual jokes, fascinating topics, or taking hints. Most first dates have ended with him paying the entire bill in silence because the opposing person had excused themself to “fix my makeup” or “get my wallet from my car”. Didn’t come back.

Kind of expects this to diverge in the same direction.

“Thought you didn’t care about scores?” she says as more of a fact than a question.

He shrugs passively. “Not really. But sometimes it’s unbelievable how quickly she took the reins.”

“Sucks to be the rest of us.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it I just meant-”

“I know what you _meant_ , Wash.” Takes a drag, exhales.

He chuckles nervously, rubs his hands together. “Uh, right. Sorry.”

She seems intrigued by his presence now, leans her head into her crossed arms to give him a sidelong look. Offers him her cigarette. He accepts it hesitantly because, well, he hasn’t tried smoking since joining Project Freelancer but she’s gazing at him with those dazing eyes that are streaks of malice and pride and despair collapsing into a pupil void of any real emotion. Simplicity and complexity, apathy and empathy; she’s so much at once, can’t be explained and must be experienced.

Just _looks_ at him. Knows that he’s nervous, doesn’t care to ask why.

He decisively inhales, lets the heat rise in the pit of his stomach and the smoke burn its way down the cavern of his chest. Exhales, passes it back. The nicotine sets in immediately, tingles the back of his neck, churns his organs as his body adjusts to the relapse.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, watching her easily take another drag as her gaze returns to the observatory. “I didn’t mean to bring up the whole Tex thing.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You know I worry about literally _everything_.”

She offers him the cigarette again, shoots the smoke out of her lungs like an animated bull, through the nose and the sides of the lips. Prides herself in the way he occupies his hands with the neatly rolled stick so he’s not doing that obnoxious twitch of his. “You’re such a fucking weirdo,” she admits, earning a snort that devolves into hysterical laughter and choking. She reaches over to firmly pat his back, rubs her palm over the gorge between his shoulder blades that trembles with every cough. At the very least, for a weirdo, he has a real nice body.

He catches his breath, gives her the cigarette. Notices that she’s smiling. “Yeah, I’ve gotten that one a lot.”

“Most likely from me.”

“You’ll be surprised. It’s my trope.”

This time it’s her turn to laugh, to ease on the tension. They’ve gotten closer somehow. And he doesn’t hesitate when he recognizes that the opportunity is there, leaning in instinctively, brushing her busted lips with his. She greets him without delay. Pliantly seals their mouths together. They kiss, taste like ash and blood and grit. He considers freaking out from the immediate anxiety but casually rides it out with her, follows her lead. Doesn’t flinch when she moans gently as he bites quizzically on the good side of her lip.

She breaks off first, takes a smoke, smirks. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

She gets up when they break apart for air, moves over to the far counter to crush the cigarette out in the tray.

He worries. Again. As always. “Sorry, was it bad?”

“You’re fine,” she answers as she returns, settling one knee imperatively between his legs, bringing the adjacent fingers to the back of his neck.

“But I-”

She slides the other hand under his chin, turning his jaw up so he’s almost forced to look at her. From this angle the only light radiating from the outer stars filters through her platinum hair, gives her an angelic complexion. He swallows drily. Accepts her kiss when she lowers down to meet him. Occupies his hands with grasping her hips and hopes that he’s doing this right. His heart pounds against the cage of his ribs, threatening to burst as it swells with anticipation.

“Don’t _think_ ,” she says, leaning back to raise her undershirt over her head and lazily discarding it to the floor. “Do what I do”—she trails butterfly kisses across the arch of his cheek to his ear—“and go with it.”

He unsurely cups the arch of her neck, locates her racing heartbeat. The veins pulsate rhythmically. She’s always had a strong heart, always led with her chest, and always, _always_ thought with her courage. Despite consistently mulling over actions, even in a situation of dire stress – allowing his brain to do the work before his body assumes action – he scrapes together enough bravery to make an impact in his scores. Unlike her, almost complimentary in a persistently opposing way. She leaps into the fray, gives the middle finger to the consequences. Suffers for it.

He finds a subtle attraction in her agony. And in return, she finds an equally subtle attraction in his distress.

_I can't believe this is happening. North is gonna kick my ass._

That contrast is there when they kiss again, this time deeply and feverishly; when she tugs insistently at the bottom hems of his shirt and his hands shake when they maneuver it over his head and to the floor. But the harmony is there when she admires his sculpt, when he brushes the pad of his thumb over an old, jagged scar from a possible knife wound and presses, earning a sudden rumble of laughter. “Stop, that’s sensitive.”

She tries to get him back by sliding a hand across the burn on his shoulder, received on his last mission to retrieve some mysterious Sarcophagus. “Nerves are dead,” he tells her with a triumphant smirk, “nice try though.”

She rolls her eyes skyward, gives him ample opportunity to lean in and kiss her chest, his hands sliding up under the support of her bra to find her breasts. Average at best, he thinks to himself, raising it up with her assistance. She peels it off easily, rocks forward a little, hand returning to clasp the back of his head. It occurs to him suddenly that she might _know_ this is his first time ever getting so close with another person, taking it in gradual pace just for his sake.

 _Just go with it,_ he scolds himself, but he’s already let his brain kick back into gear and she’s already noticed his hesitation.

“They’re called boobs,” she dead-pans.

“I – I know _that_ ,” he replies, the quivering betraying his previous stoicism. “I just need a moment. Sorry. _Sorry_ , just – just _one_ moment. It’s…”

She dismounts him, takes his hands. “Listen, _relax_. We can stop if you need to.”

 _Relax_. Funny, when it’s coming from her. “No, it’s okay! Really, it’s…okay, _I’m_ okay.”

“Alright, come here.”

There’s leagues of knowledge and capability between them. She lands better physical scores, excels in calculated formulas in astronomical physics yet fails to comprehend chemistry in its rawest form, can’t form words in large quantities but spells them with ease. He’s a genius with all that, sciences and math and miscellaneous studies, decent with combat but absolute shit with anything other than a machine gun. And in a way, it comforts him. To feel like there isn’t friction or tension or much of any _real_ competition outside of the Director’s ploys to pit every Freelancer against the other.

She eases him. Guides him over to the couch, sits herself down and encourages him to kneel. “Go with it,” she reiterates, hand on his neck, navigating him to her collar. “And for fuckssake, _don’t_ be gentle.”

He exhales, trembles under her captivating touch; she smells faintly like her lavender body wash. His anxiety is wearing him thin. “I’ve never done this before. I’m not sure if I _want_ …”

“Want to experience your first time with _me_ of all people?” Her voice has descended a pitch, solemn in the sinking realization that he wouldn’t be in the wrong in admitting that to her.

“No – I mean – I mean I _do_ just not”—he fumbles, wraps his arms around her waist to ground himself in reality—“not on a _couch_. In the commuter longue.”

“Have you at least been to third base?”

“People still use that terminology?” he retorts. She fondly strokes his well-kempt undercut. He sighs, leans into it. “The answer’s no. I’ve rarely made it passed a first date.”

“Then don’t consider this a date.”

Wash hesitates at the suggestion. Skims her spine with blunt fingernails. “…In a metaphorical situation, if I was to…ask you, politely, on a date, would you maybe say yes?”

“Don’t make it weird,” she seethes.

It’s his turn to laugh. “You know me by now, South. I make everything weird.”

.

.

.

He takes his leisure time identifying each nerve on her body through her flesh, colliding pallid and caramel tones defining their stark contrast, their unionized similarities. Jots down a mental note about which spot makes her squirm, makes her moan, makes her hiss and makes her legs tense against her sides. Pays particular attention to the latter most bundles. His kisses fall into steady practice, building momentum against the arches and expanses of her torso, the length of her collarbone, the artery in her neck. He bites and nips and sucks every spot between her jaw and naval, leaves blooming spots of red scattered haphazardly in places she’ll see tomorrow. There’s a noticeably sensitive point above her belly button that earns an acute gasp when he gives it some attention.

He saves the perked nipples for last, swallows one easily. Begins by sucking gently before increasing the stigma. She squirms, cries out and reflexively slides her hand under the hem of her shorts to stroke herself, occupies the rear of his scalp with her free palm. He helps himself to switching back and forth until she’s pressed pliantly against the far back of the couch and her moans are ebbing in intensity, breasts painfully sensitive and skin swelling with bruises and love bites.

He divides his hands between sliding off her shorts and leaving elongated scratches on her back, mumbles an apology when she hisses only for her to reaffirm the action with a heated, “That’s fucking _hot_.” Arcs a path down her hip to her thighs, moves inwards to discover other places that earn raspy moans.

Meets her heated core. Immediately slides up to kiss that spot on her naval.

“Fucking tease.”

He chuckles against her, doesn’t apologize, and lowers again to give her what she wants. He’s never seen anything sexually explicit outside of movies and attempts to satisfy her on educated guesses; tongues at her clit first to adjust to her uniquely fascinating taste. She gasps, leans back, attempts to fist his blond-dyed hair. The strands are too short so she reaches up instead to occupy herself with tugging at her hypersensitive nipples. He keeps her legs coerced open by pressing one hand to her thigh, slides one finger inside her velvety warmth. Presses up against something that makes her buck.

A second finger joins easily and he pumps gradually at first, finds a quick and hard steady pace that melts her moans into breathless cries. “That’s it,” she chokes out, arcing her back, spreading her legs to welcome his thrusts, “ _ah_ , fuck don’t stop!”

He works at her with haste, sending her towards the edge of a feeling she hasn’t experienced in a long time. She gets off on the occasional acquaintance from the ship’s maintenance staff, bangs an engineer in the closet or a pilot in the cockpits of carriers (he’s noticed the odd alleviation in friction between her and 479 lately). Yet she hasn’t quite made any connections, fills the void with a physical desire and seeks something deeply intricate, emotionally compelling; not a simple release, but an ecstatic _need_ to have every nerve in her body collapsing with pleasure.

And the way Wash touches her, with abstract intrigue, and the way he kisses her, with gentle desire, and the way he utters her name, with raw emotion – she swells with anxiety, knows that to _him_ this might be more than just a casual fuck. She’s never been in that kind of position. But it’s easy to forget his brink of innocence when he’s situated so comfortably between her legs, practically ramming the soul from her body.

Her mind blackens as she rides into bliss, hips pumping on their own as he drives her wild with ecstasy. There’s no fucking _way_ he’s never done this before.

She climaxes, tumbles into her orgasm. Leaves her legs quivering as she cries out, murmurs his name among a series of fuck’s and shit’s. He keeps her belted down by the thick of her thighs, relishing in the way she moves her hips on her own accord and presses against his mouth; sucks on her throbbing clit until she’s ridden through her orgasm. Her muscles tense and unwind, pulsing against his face.

She crosses an arm over her face to hide her blush as she leans her head back, panting. Tingling. Trembles with aftershocks. Needs to breathe.

“You’re right,” he says, rising back up to situate himself beside her.

She peers at him under her wrist, hazy eyes holding his amber gaze steady. “About?”

“Not thinking.”

“I know. I’m right about a lot of things.” She leans over to meet his lips. They spend a while like this, just kissing, allowing her haywire senses to recollect and her hands to familiarize themselves with his torso, every scar and the adorable birthmark on his upper arm, the definition in his structure. When her fingers trace the rim of his manhood, still erect like a fucking flag pole, he shies away.

“W-wait, what’re you-?”

She shushes him, maneuvers his pants down and tugs them off, follows it with his briefs. “Shut up, sit back.”

He compliantly obeys, allows her to switch so she’s the one between his legs. He’s average when flaccid and mildly impressive when erect, but he’s still shy by nature and his manhood seems to almost shrink a little in her presence. She doesn’t seem bothered, doesn’t comment on it with a snarky attitude. Merely runs her hand along his shaft with several experimental strokes that earn a small moan. She soothes the underside with the pad of her thumb. He throbs with pleasure and a small bead of precum rolls out of his tip.

Definitely his first time.

She swallows him easily, rolls down almost to the base. Has to give him credit for not ejaculating right then and there. Starts slow. He eases into her gradual tempo, relaxes but is still too bashful to make eye contact, keeps his lids shut to amplify the sensation and his head lolled back against the headrest. Subconsciously one hand moves to her head, fingers deftly tangling with the platinum streaks of her hair, an iridescent purple fade from previous dyes still visible in her bangs.

She picks up her pace, traces figure 8s across his flesh with her tongue, adds a pleasing amount of suction on her ascension. At some point she carefully nudges two fingers into herself and strokes her front walls, almost pretends it’s him. His pressure is building, his hips rock on their own accord, he’s already panting and barely lasted a minute, has woven his hand into a fist against the back of her head. She doesn’t mind that much either, kind of likes it really.

And without warning he spills over with a gasp. Would collapse if he had been standing. She just has that effect on him.

.

.

.

She’s grinning when she finally pulls back, wiping away a dribble of spit from the corner of her mouth. “Jesus Wash, you could have at least _warned_ me.”

He’s blushing furiously, embarrassed and unable to utilize the phrase _this never happens to me, I swear,_ because he’s right in theory but not in context _._ “I-I wasn’t expecting it!”

She perches in his lap, kisses him. Lets him taste himself on her lips before leaning her forehead into his. “I was in the middle of getting off again. You owe me.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. Always apologizing.

She dismounts and picks up her discarded clothes from the floor, slides on her shorts and her bra and finally her sleeveless. When she returns to him he’s tucking himself back into his briefs, welcomes her heated kiss for the hundredth time tonight. “You okay?” she asks, which sounds misplaced coming from her. She’s never expressed concern towards her teammates, another trait he finds morbidly attractive in a sadistic way, keeps a wedge between her personal emotions and her professional front. This question doesn’t come across as concern either, but there’s a little lapse of stress in how quietly she utters it.

He reassures her with a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. In fact, I’ve never been better.”

.

.

.

The door to the joint room slides open silently and South steps in with the grace of a butterfly, but it’s still enough of a coherent sound to startle CT on the lower bunk. She’s a particularly light sleeper, which occasionally amounts to distress because South rarely sleeps and spends most of her down time active, and simply breathing the wrong way causes CT to surge to life with fists raised ready to fight off aliens in her pinstriped pajamas if it boils down to it.

“Where were you?” CT utters, groggily rubbing at her eyes as South lifts herself onto the top bunk, her other hand instinctively wrapping around the grip of her emergency pistol. Keeps it under her pillow at all times. South wonders what CT’s so afraid of, or if it’s a mentality acquired from their job.

“None of your business.”

“ _Nn_.” She hits the pillow again, immediately falls asleep. No danger, no need for being up at all.

South rests easily. Dreams of Wash.

He has that effect on her.


	2. Of Deceit and G-Spots

_“So you don’t know anything about these outsourced transmissions?”_

_“Of course not. But if you’d like, I could ground up some information for you.”_

_“That’s perfectly alright, Agent South, no need to fuss. We’re just making sure it’s not a system hiccup. You’re dismissed.”_

The door to the Director’s office slides shut without delay as she exits, the anxiety pressing heavily on her chest.

 

 

 

_“Where were you?”_

_“Some dumb-as-shit meeting with the Director. He’s interviewing several Freelancers hoping to make sense of unauthorized transmissions being sent from the ship.”_

_“…Oh. That sounds concerning.”_

_“Like I care. Hey, CT? Where are you go – C?”_

CT has left wordlessly, abandoning South to an upheaval of uncomfortable silence.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

* * *

 

.

.

.

 _This whole place is fucked_ , South tells herself repetitively during breakfast, stares absently at her meal. Orange slices, almond milk, two cinnamon waffles, no butter or syrup. Never feels like eating much in the morning. She doesn’t have much of a stomach for food today in particular, absorbs most of her time in allowing her mind to drift off to the events of last night, of this morning. Despite warming up in the shower earlier before her bruises haven’t eased and her flesh is still tingling with the ghostly afterthought of yesterday.

And what the fuck the meeting with the Director was all about.

Curious gazes have glimpsed her over repeatedly since she entered the mess hall, but she’s not keen on how the most concern comes from her brother. North has a swollen eye from one of Tex’s infamous hook-punches that would have crumpled his helmet had it not been made out of the second strongest material in production, yet he behaves like she’s the wounded animal in a bear trap. “You look a little beat up there,” he comments off-handedly. Pretends to be obtuse about everything. Really just an analytical prick. “You go back for a second round or something?”

“No, nine beatings from Texas was enough for one day.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I _don’t_ ,” she lies. “Now drop it before I drop you.”

“Sorry. Alright…you gonna finish”—she pushes the plate towards him wordlessly—“I guess not.”

It only escalates when Wash takes the open seat across from her several minutes later. He’s brimming with energy, probably had a fantastic night’s sleep. She spent the rest of the cycle having weird sexual fantasies that drilled vibrant images into the back of her head, permeating every thought and defining every nervous tick. She even begins to chew her lip, taps an uneven tempo against her glass with her forefinger. To York and Maine, she probably comes across as a pent up ball of rage, but North knows her better, knows her best – recognizes that she’s troubled.

“Hey, South, you wanna talk about it?”

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, firmly shakes her head. Tap tap _taptaptap_ s the glass. To be honest, she can’t quite pin down _why_ she’s so bothered by Wash’s presence, why she hasn’t been able to push last night’s event out of her mind. Why she kind of wants to do it again (unless she’s mistaking her jittery nerves for arousal, in which case, maybe she’s committed a grave mistake). When her gaze travels up she finds Wash _looking_ at her, with a small smile plastered across his normally convivial expression.

Her heart drops. Maybe skips.

_Just a casual fuck._

She excuses herself. Needs some time to think. Is utterly aware of Wash’s quizzical stare on her back as she goes.

.

.

.

The first time South had met Wash was when she and North had been recruited onto the program, only about fourteen days behind CT and twenty-nine after Florida. Wash had been selected the morning prior to South’s official enlistment, and they were allowed into the training room to meet with the other Freelancers, who subsequently reached a bet that either North or South had the best weapons skill in the field, leaving Wash to stitch together excuses for his mediocre evaluation scores. So it was decided, scheduled, and the foam pellets were brought forth.

(“Not so bad if you don’t let them hit you,” Carolina had said matter-of-factly, much to the chagrin of everyone else.)

North relayed a plan to track down Wash out of natural reliance on his sister to help corner him down, only to be met with a bullet to the face. South had betrayed him, initially as a joke – and much to her later dismay, would cause friction in the ranks in regards to her credence. And she had found Wash easily enough by following York’s visor as he tracked Wash’s movements from above, shot him in the crotch and side-kicked him in the chest into the nearest pillar. One point for her, zero for them both.

She had winded Wash long before the bullet ever met its mark. And seeing her now is a similarly agonizing experience, each and every time.

.

.

.

“Was it night terrors again?”

South jolts in her place when North enters the locker room, had been previously staring absently at the wall for an unperceived lapse of time. Her immediate reaction is to snatch up the pistol in her locker and aim it for the center of his visor, the kill shot, the easiest way to down a soldier in a suit of fortified armor. He reflexively raises his hands. “Easy South, let’s not act hasty. I would like to avoid being sent to the infirmary ward – again – this month, especially if we can avoid it, thank you.”

The gun is shaking in her grip.

Her brother eases, allows his more serious self to surface. “Easy, _easy_. It’s just me. Big ol’ friendly North.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” she hisses, resets the weapon on the shelf. She has to recollect herself. “I’m just not – not feeling like _myself_ right now, is all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I can go to the Counselor if you want. You’re due for a mental health exam anyway.”

“Jesus North, can you shut up? I don’t want to fucking _talk_ to _anyone_. They all just think I’m crazy and make me choke on pills.” She slams the lockers closed as if to clarify her agitation, exhales. “It’s not even about the night terrors, okay? It’s not about project Freelancer, it’s not about AIs, it’s not about some goddamn rank on the board. It’s about what’s _happening_. It feels like there’s something collapsing around me – my chain of mistakes or the weird shit I’ve been noticing.”

“Care to elaborate?”

South glances around, listens attentively for other noises. They’re alone. Lowers her voice regardless. “I think there’s something wrong with CT.”

“ _Wrong_.”

She rolls her shoulders, uneasily rubs at the back of her neck. It feels like there’s a hundred sets of eyes watching her as she speaks, judging and whispering and studying. “Remember when Wash mentioned how he was called into a meeting and they questioned him about mysterious calls recorded being sent from the ship to an untraceable source? I didn’t feel comfortable with the whole notion myself, especially after they called me in too.”

North visibly hesitates. “They called you in? And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Why would I?”

A brief lapse of silence. “I’m just used to you telling me everything, is all.” He’s lying, she pretends not to notice.

“It happened this morning, there wasn’t much time for me to baton-pass the information.”

“What was so bad about it?”

“Well, I _was_ going to bring it up with you. Or ask you what you know about it.” She pauses, seems to consider if she should be relaying this information at all. Because North is clearly acting like he doesn’t know a single fucking _thing_ about what’s going on when he so obviously does, and frankly, that _bothers_ her. But if she can't trust North, what's left for her? “I had ended up mentioning the briefing to CT first. More in passing, tried to make a light conversation out of it. Next thing I know she’s dodging me and I haven’t seen her since.”

“Do you think she knows something about it?”

“I don’t know _what_ to think,” South replies with a pang of discomposure in her voice, “I _never_ know what to think when it comes to stupid fucking project. But whether she’s involved or just has more information than she should, she hasn’t been herself and it’s putting me on edge. I don’t want to make it worse, either, so I haven’t brought it up again.”

“Until now.”

A curt nod. “And even now I’m regretting dwelling on it. I vote we don’t discuss this further until another incident occurs. Right now, I’m keen on keeping my lips shut until the storm blows over. Last thing I need is to get mixed up in this shit.”

“Agreed.”

And they leave it at that. The tension doesn’t alleviate, though.

* * *

.

.

.

She’s assigned a new mission. It keeps the torment of the day’s events at bay for what it’s worth.

 

 

 

Her fists are throbbing and her knuckles are bruised from too many misplaced hits, but she figures that she’s survived more perilous missions and facilely shoulders her pain, cracking another guard in the face as she vaults down the hallway. The thick plating of her boots pounds against the unevenly tiled floor, acutely ricocheting off the barren facility walls. She steadies her breathing just as she makes the turn and manages to deftly avoid a burst of rapid gunfire, tucking into a barrel roll, whipping around her shot gun and pumping a precise round into the soldier’s stomach.

He hits the ground with a sickening thump. She slides on her back, impacts the wall with the balls of her feet, allows her knees to absorb the shock. _Keep moving,_ she tells herself briskly, her thoughts surging at nearly a million miles an hour to keep pace with her instinctive motions. _You’re almost there._

There’s a distinct trail of smeared blood dragged across the length of her wake. From taking down the twelves guards before just to initially break into this stupid place at all – no, the shots hadn’t met their mark, but they had certainly hit something dire instead. She tastes the bitter apathy on her tongue like a piquancy of salt. There’s a notion in her actions that diverge from the original plan, like she can’t stop herself from driving away from the mission into a tactic as she deems fit.

_I’m going to get so much shit for this later._

Her destination is down the corridor and she maneuvers to her feet with the grace of a wild cat, zesty and eager despite the tension in her damaged torso, a dull pain severely amplified by the blood loss. She barely pauses long enough other than to draw another arduous breath, feels like her lung might be punctured, thanks the technology in her suit for compressing on it to capture any escaping air.

_“South, do you read me?”_

The adenoidal voice crackles through the intercom, as if the person on the other side is winded. Nearly trips when she breaks into a swift sprint for the door. “Go ahead Wash!”

_“First of all, thanks for leaving me behind. You’re the worst partner anyone could have. Ever.”_

“Look, you were slowing me down and I have a mission to complete. And why do you sound so tired? Giving up already?”

_“Jesus South, I have half this building converging on me! I have barely any ammo and you’re – what exactly are you doing, anyway?”_

She draws to a halt before the panel on the wall, smashing her fist through the Plexiglas with relative ease. “I’m breaking into the vault,” she says matter-of-factly, fingers curling into the wiring, seeking out the correct triggers.

_“Wait, you need to get through the security system! I just got in here!”_

“So hurry the fuck up and disable it!”

 _“Now why can’t you two just get along nicely?”_ responds a fruitier individual, the silvery timbre of his voice pressing roughly on their nerves and relaxing their previous tension. Neither of the Freelancers reply to agent Florida, even when he gives them several seconds of lapsing quiet to fill with answers. _“See, that’s better. I’m in the communications room extracting the files from the main drive, but I found the emergency security relay charts as well. We have three minutes before the reinforcements show up to tear us a new one.”_

 _“That doesn’t give me enough time to break through the system_ ,” Wash shoots back, furiously tapping the keys on the panel in front of him, mentally formulating the commands to shortcut through the firewall.

“Then abandon it and help me,” comes South’s blunt order as she dips further into the mess. She locates the main memory board and tears it free with a forceful tug; the door beside her slides open. There’s several noticeable tripwires, a red sensor barred across the floor in a checkerboard pattern and collapsible panels that could hide the trigger-happy assault guns. The inner room is buzzing with rows of advanced computers and backup storage units, a daunting mangle of steel and circuits.

A split second later the lasers flicker out. _“Uploaded a proxy,”_ Wash says into the intercom, _“it doesn’t disable the system but it instead forces a complete reboot.”_

_“Fine job soldier.”_

_“But there’s no telling how long we have before the defenses are back online. We need to work fast!”_

She sprints over to the main computer and slaps in the USB card, doesn’t have time for tabbing through files and instead transfers everything under a folder of the Director’s potential interest. By the time the card is 78% transferred footsteps echo out from the hall. She raises her standard-issued weapon to the doorway, eases off the trigger when Wash jogs in instead of the much anticipated Insurgent forces. “Upload is almost complete,” she relays, blinking as her vision blurs like a watercolor canvas.

“South, you’re hit.”

Refocuses. She rolls her eyes. Has nearly forgotten what his insistent worrying is like. “I’m fine, just need you to seal it with a protein.”

He moves swiftly over to her and lowers to the floor, detaching a canister from a loop on his hip plate. It’s a simple puncture, she’s done worse. Still pops the can’s lid and injects the false protein into the wound to clog the bleeding and encourage her body to reproduce faster. “Jeez South, can you go a single day without getting hurt?”

“Not in my contract.”

 _“I’m on route to the extraction point,”_ Florida mentions. _“Clearing you two a path up to the roof. Meet me there ASAP. The building’s swarming with hostiles.”_

“We gonna blow this one up too?” Wash figures as South pops out the drive. “I don’t think I can handle that kind of mission again.”

Her voice hardens at the mention of the Sarcophagus retrieval. “Shut up and move, Wash.”

* * *

 

.

.

.

Besides South getting shot during her encounter, they finish the mission without delay and South even takes a moment to reconfigure the proxy files Wash set up into a virus that corrupts the entire Insurgent system, and leaves them with an error message every time they attempt to access the system. (A happy face bleeding from its eyes pops up in a vibrant red box that reads “We killed everything. Suck our nuts. Love, Project Freelancer.” And everyone gets a kick out of it for days.)

But in the aftermath a week later, South is still descending down the board. Especially when she’s being placed on stupid little incursions instead of major missions.

South curses under her breath as she digs her knuckles into her bandage to ease the ache. The bullet hole has sealed into an irritated scar that itches immensely, probably from scabbing over in the process of replicating her missing skin. Makes her frustrated. Makes her want to gorge out the flesh from her torso with her combat knife. Scratching’s just going to reopen the stitches but she’s so goddamn annoyed with it at this point she may as well make it worse. Anything to alleviate this god-awful _itch_.         

She’s in turmoil on the floor of her room, staring absently at the ceiling with one fist pressing painfully against the wound and the other pressed pliantly to the floor. Can’t sleep again. The distant thrum of the ship’s engines is noticeable in relative quiet yet amplified in complete and utter silence, when the night cycle is halfway through its completion and the only staff still conscious are the night custodians to keep the ship clean. CT isn’t here tonight. Running some extravagantly boring black-ops mission with York, Wyoming, and Maine.

South hates sleeping alone. She’s grown accustomed to sharing a room with North from when they were children. As a teen, used to have to sneak in and stay with him when she was having particularly nasty nights. Had a roommate her first year in college. Now has CT. Perhaps it’s the trauma of her past that keeps her unnerved most nights, seated on edge, expecting the demons in her nightmares to return with crippling anxiety and horrors that have bruised her arms and left scars on her skin. (Thinks about sharp blades and destroying herself so she no longer has to look like _him_.)

Shudders, grasps her forearm in phantom pain. Tries to avoid thinking anymore about that.

She pulls up to her feet, adjusts her shorts, makes her way into the hall. Considers going to North so she can crash on York’s bunk for the rest of the cycle, but immediately finds herself rapping her knuckles against a different room door entirely. The Freelancers all bunk together in pairs, decided by a personality test taken prior to enlistment, and their rooms are marked by distinct red bands that jaggedly block across the doors. The panel beside the division allows access by code unless opened from the inside, has Wash’s name highlighted in green. Means he’s inside. Maine’s name is in red. Still on the mission.

Knocks again, more insistently this time.

The door slides open with a metallic hiss. Wash blinks at her wearily, furrows his brow. “What’s going on?”

“Mind if I crash in here?”

He hesitates. Shakes his head. Steps to the side. “Nah, come in.”

South glances around the room as she enters and the division shuts in her wake. Maine keeps everything clean surprisingly, or perhaps it’s just Wash who prefers to have order, so the place is practically spotless, except for the basket of clothes on the floor near the center table and the gradually growing pile of folded shirts to its right. Wash wordlessly sits himself down before the laundry, tends to sorting through the heap in search of the rest of his undershirts. South finds herself staring at him for several seconds too long. Changes the subject.

“So are you top or bottom?”

“I’m a top.” Catches himself, amends his statement. “I mean I _sleep_ on the _top_ bunk, I’m _not_ – I mean, I wouldn’t _know_.”

South contemplates perching on the end of the lower bed, runs her hand over her agitated wound again, considers sprawling out. She’s sure Maine won’t mind, but she doesn’t bother just yet. Instead she pads over to him and sits at his side, pushing her chin comfortably into the arch of his shoulder. “What’re you doing up so late, anyway?”

“I’m not very tired. You?”

“Same.” Not really.

She’s just frustrated for several reasons at once, doesn’t admit that. He, like every other Freelancer, probably figures as much. They mistake her apathy for sincerity and her anxiety for agitation. Unlike North, whose kindness masks his persistent jealousy and whose subconscious anger is suppressed by his pastoral nature. But she knows her brother as well as he knows her, yet to some rooted degree, he can’t _understand_ her the same way she can’t comprehend him. Why is her rage unstable, where does his envy stem from? Neither connect as well psychologically as they do mentally.

And maybe Wash just gets it. Gets _her_.

He knows that her anger is misdirected not misplaced. Possibly knows that she has to be frilled around the edges to survive in a world that consistently pits her against her own brother. Because even if he does get it, get _her_ , he doesn’t express it, nor does he voice his concerns.

She likes that about him. Maybe. There’s something borderline submissive about it. And she’s always prided herself in her dominant, overwhelming nature.

Contrast. She maybe likes that too.

South presses her fingers to the curve of his ear, gently rubs into his skin. He swallows drily. Shifts. Turns to meet her lips. She tastes a bit ashy, like she had chained smoked prior to her arrival, and from this proximity, he picks up on the smoky aroma still clinging desperately to her clothes. Like charcoal. A burning forest under a hazy sky. She’s disastrous like that. And he’s drawn to such chaos, to crumbling foundations and violet infernos. “Maybe there’s something I can do to fix that,” she says alluringly, meeting his gaze, renewed with energy.

She pushes away to give him space and lies back on the frigid floor, drawing a forefinger under the hem of her shorts. He attempts to swallow again, nearly chokes on his own saliva.

“Unless you’re too tired.”

Taunting him. “Tired? Who said tired?” he blurts out, hastily throwing the shirt aside and rising to his knees so he can properly situate himself between her legs. Pushes her down against the floor by her wrists and kisses her. He shakes a little, reduced to a pile of nerves in her presence, has always been anxious when it comes to being anywhere _near_ her. Stutters when he attempts to hold a conversation, get jittery when they execute missions on the same team, can’t help but stare at her when she sits next to North in 479’s carrier. He’s captivated by her skill and her beauty and her commanding demeanor.

Just can’t seem to get enough.

She’s never considered what she thinks of him, but he’s cute, in a way. When he gets excited he stumbles over words, when he looks at her she notices that her stomach loops and she fumbles with regaining her composure. Like a temporary daze. Both a very intelligent individual yet utterly oblivious, handles himself professionally better than he’s capable of doing socially. Hell, she liked him enough to let him in her pants. Perhaps she’s overlooked his candidacy, or has never taken an opportunity to acknowledge the signs. Recognized the chemistry, erased the formula.

Finds him as intoxicating as a cigarette.

He rides up her shirt and sucks on the sensitive spots on her torso he had discovered last time, careful to avoid the bandage. Finds that knife scar near her stomach and blows a raspberry. She emits a startled squeal that rolls into a laugh, pushes down on his head. “Stop that!” He adores her laugh. It’s so fucking rare and so goddamn unique, a harsh timbre yet a gentle sonance, doesn’t think he’s heard anything from her more pleasant than her snarky comments. Bites her naval next.

Works swiftly at sliding off her shorts. “I still owe you one,” he remarks, nipping at the inside of her thighs.

“And here I figured you forgot.”

He rides up her shirt, roughly caresses her clit. “That’s hurtful.”

“Can you just shut up for once and foc”—his teeth catch her nipple, stroking upwards on her responding buck—“ _fuck_ , better.”

He’s reduced to nervousness but she’s coming apart at her seams, almost despises how quickly he catches on to what she likes (desires). Sucks her nipple and works two fingers into her easily, pressing up to find that place that makes her gasp. Interestingly enough, from this angle at least, he locates a small bundle of nerves that feel tight. Presses his thumb to her clit and massages the tense spot. “ _Ah_ , fuck – _fuck_ ,” she utters breathlessly, arching her back and rocking her hips down onto his hand. He doesn’t understand that no one’s found that sensitive part of her before and instead assumes she just enjoys it.

Knows she doesn’t like it gentle and picks up his pace.

It feels almost like her bladder is swelling. Intrigued by the reaction he rubs the nerves in circles with rapid succession, earns scratches on his neck and she’s muttering his name as her moans build into her climax. Suddenly, without any warning, she cries out intensely yet incoherently and the next thing he knows the muscles force his fingers out and she _squirts_. The jettison catches him by complete surprise, hits his shirt like a broken fountain faucet. She rocks her hips into the aftershocks, clutching his sleeve and digging her nails into the floor.

Wash gapes at her, glances at his shirt to her back to his shirt in bewilderment. “What the _fuck_ was _that_?!”

“My g-spot you bastard,” she snaps. “Jesus you don’t know what _squirting_ is?”

“You can do that?!”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“Literally anything _but_ that!” He slides off the ruined shirt, glances it once over. “Now I need to make a special trip to the laundry room and clean this again – ugh, I literally cannot _believe_ that’s a thing! That was the second weirdest experience, I've ever had, of all time.”

South rolls her eyes despite herself, locates her shorts and pulls them on briskly.

Wash stares at her quizzically. “Wait…that’s it? Did I do it wrong?”

“Were you expecting something else?”

He presses his hands together, rubs them with anticipation. His nervous tick. She reactively sneers at him because she’s irritated by how he ploys with innocence and cowardice in the prospect of a single thing in his life going wrong. “I mean…I don’t really know _what_ to expect with you. I was just hoping – ah, never mind.” His gaze lowers to the floor, to the frigid surface and away from the equally unforgiving flames in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Hoping to get laid?” South figures, crossing her arms against her chest.

“Hoping that whichever way the night ends, you’d spend it with me.”

His meek reply catches her off guard. She parts her lips to reply, hesitates. Finally understands him the way she never wanted to – because he genuinely, truly, and with all his heart, _likes_ her. And there’s several details wrong with that: _Nobody_ likes her. Nobody _likes_ her. Nobody likes _her_. _Nobody_ is _stupid_ enough to _like her_ , especially not in _that_ way. And that’s a realization she’s hardly acknowledged before tonight. Before him. Did she just fuck it all up?

Goddammit. This shit is why she smokes.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” she says with a disgusted sigh. Scoots towards him to gently pat the side of his jaw. “Save that innocent-façade shit for an idiot who’s gonna buy it.”

Wash grins at her, holds up his shirt. “Help me fold some laundry then?”

God, with a smile like that, how could she possibly say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a bit of fun with this chapter cause the next is going to be a downhill spiral.


	3. Crotch Shot Bonding Sessions

“Session 41. Hello agent South Dakota.”

“Hello Counselor,” she responds robotically, almost dismally, her fingers tapping the flannel-patterned arm rest of the love seat. Her attention is fixated on his viewing window to the right, on the triple-ringed planet passing by as they travel just outside the whisper of its orbit. It’s mandarin hue pulsates with hurricane storms that form crimson swirls along its northern and southern poles, inhospitable, no doubt, for humans at least. The sight is amplified by the dimmed lights from the ceiling panels, the Counselor’s attempt at keeping every patient as placidly submissive as the next.

“When I say ‘mark’ you say ‘synch’. Mark.”

“…Synch.”

“Mark.”

“Synch.”

“Good job. Now, agent South…North has expressed some rather troubling concerns lately.” He tabs to a page in her file, sets the tip of his pen against the screen. “How have you been sleeping?”

She looks over at the digital audio recording device on the night stand beside him, resting against a stuffed cow toy. “Barely.”

“Still smoking?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been experiencing any odd changes lately to your eating habits or your routines?”

“Eating less. Not very motivated to attend training sessions.”

He jots down the notes professionally as they go, as they ramble over the easy questions in anticipation for the psychological shit she resents so much. She just hates doctors. Doesn’t hate the Counselor, he’s nice to her – has a bad history with therapists, is all. She wishes these psych evaluations weren’t mandatory. Loathes being here. The evaluations are her least favorite part of the job – borderline on getting shot – and she leaves this office typically cranky. Unpleasantly irked.

“How have you been handling your temper?”

“Comes and goes. Been really on edge since last mission.”

“And have you noticed any changes in your aggression?”

“I don’t fucking know, I’m always aggressive.”

Jots down more notes. Ugh, she hates that. It’s like she’s nothing more than a psychoanalysis experiment for the science community and her real personal emotions don’t actually fucking matter. “Let’s try some trigger tests,” the Counselor says next, as placid as everything else, like the trigger test isn’t a big fucking deal. Because it is. It’s sent Maine over the edge too many times before. Will make her own skin crawl with repressed memories. Sometimes it burrows into her nerves. “Mark.”

“Synch.”

“Lights. High School. Cars. Twins. Tell me what you think of.”

“North, obviously.” South sits back in her chair, raises her hands when she randomly recalls a memory. “You know, there was this one time, when were like, 17. there was this circus, carnival – uh shit I can’t seem to remember exactly what it was, let’s just say carnival – so we went to this carnival. It was some yearly town special in the summer we had never been to until now, since most of our summers consisted of family road trips. And given it was our first experience of it, North offered to invite his friends.”

The Counselor eases into the chair, settles into the story easily. “Did you and North have trouble making friends?”

“Not really. He was mister popular and I was a hell of a good shot on the Volleyball team. We had our social circle like most people, you know? Anyway, we end up going with two other guys: a transfer student from France named Jacque who seemed to have no solid social adaptability – went on the play that godawful sport Grifball – and some other kid, shit what was his name…” She rubs at her temples. Snaps her fingers. “ _Will_. Anyway, we carpool over in Will’s piece of shit convertible, start having the time of our lives.”

“Did something go wrong?”

“Well, it was going just _fine_ until Will started flirting, tried to convince me into hooking up with him for the night at his place. He was sincere about it, for the most part, even though I did politely turn him down. I dunno, he wasn’t really my type.” She hesitates, crosses her arms. “But as the night progressed, he began to act really weird. At some point, I pulled him aside thinking it was about him not getting in my pants.”

“What was it really about?”

“Turns out, he wanted to date _North_ , and thought sleeping with me would make my brother jealous. He had this huge crush on Mr. Perfect, tried to ask me out instead, apologized for being an asshole and all that stupid shit. So of course I’m pissed because _Jesus_ , are you kidding me, you can’t just ask out my brother instead of beating around the bush?”

“That sounds uncomfortable.”

“That’s not even the best part. So I’m having this meltdown because I’m absolutely fucking _seething_ that this guy would pretend to be my friend just to sleep with me, just to get to my _brother_ , and I threaten to out the dude. He doesn’t take it lightly, grabs my arm, starts making threats of his own I can hardly remember at this point. And North had been looking for us for the last several minutes, hears us fighting and goes _off.”_

“North’s prone to outbursts?”

“Not like mine, no, but when it comes to me, yes. Anyway…he knocks Will the fuck out, we find Jacque, walk home and spend the rest of the night fucking around with old movies.” South sits back into the chair once more, settles. “That’s when I realized it didn’t fucking matter what other people thought, or how they compared us. I’m the only thing North cares about the most.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Like he’s shallow. And sometimes it bothers me that I never put him first when I should. And that we both do have something in common – we’re both very, very jealous people. I’m jealous of him, and he’s jealous of me. He’s jealous because people always made him feel guilty and I’m jealous I wasn’t ever perfect. Like, maybe if we had swapped bodies, we would have been happier.” She’s tapping against the arm rest again, keeping the same even tempo.

The Counselor scrawls a side note. “It seems you have developed a bit of a tick, agent South.”

“I didn’t even notice.”

“It sounds to me like you’re suffering from severe anxiety,” he remarks, opening two medicinal files on the screen, “most likely from bottled up emotions, repressed memories, and stress.”

“Repressed memories?”

The Counselor meets her curious gaze, turns down to his notes. “I’m going to try another trigger test. Mark.”

“Synch.”

“Parents. Purple. Pictures. Bedroom. Tell me what you think of.”

She doesn’t want to. The memories flash abruptly, and she gazes through a window into her bedroom, the violet walls tacked with posters and the teenage girl curled on the floor in a bed of broken glass from a shattered picture frame, sobbing into her forearms, strained and tired and crumbling. She can hear her parents arguing through the locked door over anything and everything, subconsciously brings her hands to her ears to muffle the screaming. A fractured, reactive part of her stumbles, wants to desperately call out to North. Another sliver of her sanity splinters under the pressure of the fear.

“I don’t want to do this shit anymore,” she hisses, recognizes the quaking in her hands. The anxiety. The tremulous breathing. The tears stinging her eyes. “ _Please_.”

“That’s perfectly alright. We’ll stop.” The Counselor notices that she doesn’t quite recover from the flashback and reaches over to grasp the stuffed cow plush from the stand. The bell on its collar jingles lightly, breaking South out of her trance, stabilizing her in reality with its simple chime. “Here. Do you want to hold Maybelle?”

South breathes, wipes away the wetness from her eyes. “The hell is that thing?”

“She’s a therapy doll for relieving stress.”

South reluctantly accepts it just to have something to occupy her hands. Runs her thumb over the embossed inscription of its name in the collar. “God, this is fucking stupid. I’m an adult in the goddamn _military_ for Christ’s sake.”

“Maine has a preference for the alternative pig doll.”

_“He’s thirty.”_

“It doesn’t matter how old you are, agent South. Memories and trauma are wounds the dig deep; sometimes they heal, sometimes the scars reopen.” He gives her a second to respond but she returns her attention to the stuffed toy, gives it a light squeeze. “We’re almost out of time for today, so I’m going to prescribe you some medication to help. Would you prefer something to help you sleep or something to alleviate anxiety?”

“Neither, I hate pills.”

“Small doses, I promise. Side effects won’t include more than a change in appetite at worst, so long as you don’t abuse them. And they certainly won’t affect how you fight or behave in the field.”

“I seriously don’t want any.”

“Why are you adamant, agent South?”

“Because _that_ memory isn’t repressed.”

The Counselor notices her scowl, takes a quick note. “My apologies. Did you want to-?”

“No.”

He ponders her remark before jotting down another set of bullet points. “I see. I won’t prescribe the medicine then, but, if the anxiety becomes a problem I’ll have no choice but to give them to you. The Director needs his soldiers to function operably in the field.”

“Fine. There’s no avoiding that, I guess.”

“Why don’t you keep Maybelle for the meantime?”

“Whatever. Can I go now?”

“Yes. You’re dismissed.”

.

.

.

She expects to throw the toy into her locker, strip off her armor and be done with any other miscellaneous activities for the day, but of course Carolina happens to be in the room. She’s just returned from the showers and her flaring hair is still dripping when she tromps over to South Dakota. “Alright then,” she starts with a drawl, leaning against the door with her arms crossed back against her chest, covering the dampened hem of her undershirt, “what’s with the cow?”

“Who honestly fucking cares?”

“I do. It’s a bit childish, don’t you think?”

South glances down at the animal careened on its side, picks it up. Its fur is an alabaster slate defined by obnoxiously round obsidian spots, adorned by tiny horns and a cartoonish nose. The stupid thing looks like a half-assed attempt at being trendy, lacking hooves and stitched so it sits like a bear. Squeaks when she applies pressure to its torso. “The Counselor gave it to me to help alleviate stress, or something. I don’t know, the whole fucking session was dumb. Why do you care?”

“Because while the sessions with the Counselor are private, the statistical ratings of every Freelancer are _not_.” She pushes upright to square her shoulders, some intimidation method that typically makes her appear larger despite her rather short stature. South isn’t bothered. “Your mental evaluation scores dropped three whole points today. You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Nobody gives a rat’s ass about mental health, Carolina. As long as I’m getting shit done, no one _has_ to care.”

“Look…all I’m saying is,” she gently grasps the other woman’s shoulder, allowing a rare smile to grace her lips, “if you need to talk to someone, I’m here.”

South glances at Carolina out of the corner of her eye before returning her disinterested gaze to the cow in her hands. Its lifeless stare reflects nothing, a blank state of being. The perfect candidate for projection. “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s just easier to forget things and move on, you know?”

“The past is a ghost, South.” Carolina pats Maybelle on the head. Moves towards the door. “You can’t get rid of it unless you make peace with it.”

“Yeah,” she utters, “I’ll try to remember that.”

* * *

.

.

.

Incursion, excursion, a _big fucking waste of time_ – South avoids utilizing the term _mission_ because unless she’s managed to break at least three bones – (not necessarily _hers_ , although she’s taken exception a multitude of times) - and crippled a structure to its foundation, the trial will be nothing more than another way to kill boredom. Assassinations on miniscule scales are worth equal on the leaderboard. South is eager to reclaim her place, so these bullshit assignments leave her writhing with irritation and anticipation.

Wash figures he’ll suffer through it tonight.

“I’m fucking _bored_ ,” she seethes, adjusting the scope on her sniper as she flattens her stomach against the jagged surface of the cliff’s edge. “Jesus, why am I even here? It doesn’t take four Freelancers to run a goddamn _assassination_ op.”

Wash wants to admit to how he really doesn’t care what he’s assigned to do as long as the task goes off without a hitch, but he knows that he’d prefer to keep the conversation stable. Agitating her would just make the silence awkward. “Think about something entertaining, then. Like the prospect of our new AIs.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, I guess I’m kind of excited for that. I could finally get back my place above North.”

The darkness shrouds the fields beneath their stationed plateau but Wash uses it as an excuse to keep his attention focused on eyeing as many miniscule details as possible to avoid looking in her direction. She’s nearly pressed against his shoulder, radiating heat and life and electricity. “I find it mildly ironic that you’re going to receive the younger of the twins,” he adds just to keep the conversation alive.

“We’re a match for a reason.” She sweeps her aim across the viewing panels of the building, noting every soldier and every sentry. Her attention rests on a guard poised by himself near one of the four main entrances. He’s fiddling with his weapon for the moment, drawn to a temporary halt. “You think I should shoot that guy in the balls? The one patrolling the east wing by himself.”

Wash locates the man, glances at her. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“So fucking much. Blame favoritism and restrictive parenting.” She leans away from her scope, props herself up on her elbows.

Wash exhales an exasperated sigh.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll bite, what’s got you down?”

“Nothing, just…the idea of losing control of the AI, having it destroy us… As much as I am thrilled by the upcoming implantations, I’m nervous of how they might respond to us, especially with how nasty Maine’s headaches are becoming.” He glimpses her over with his calculated gaze, but she hasn’t moved. “Doesn’t it scare you?”

“Nothing scares me.”

“I’m sure _something_ scares you.” He’s looking at her expectantly now, her magenta armor dulling its brilliant flare in the looming night. “Losing North, maybe? You refused to leave his side during his recovery after the oil platform fiasco. I haven’t seen you that stressed out in _months_ – after what happened with agent Vermont, remember?”

She winces, can still hear Vermont’s screaming in the back of her mind like a phantom of her memories. Told the stupid bastard to be careful. “I’d like to forget that.”

“Right, sorry. I’m just trying to make a point.”

South sets her chin down on her crossed forearms. “People die in the field, Wash. It happens.”

“You’re cynical, you know that? North would be _devastated_ if you got killed.”

“And that’s _his_ weakness. As much as I love North – and he does mean the world to me – I’ve come to understand that this is war and not everyone makes it back.” She shudders as a frigid gale of wind tumbles over them, shifts over to press against his side and exchange body heat. The thermal gel insulation in the undersuits isn’t offering much protection when their bodies are stationary. “But my brother’s not like that. He’s all friendship and empathy and humor. Take away me, watch him crumble.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Wash chides.

“You’d love to off me, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s a lot of people I’d like to off, but you’re certainly not one of them.”

She perks up at the drastic shift of intrepid irritation in his tone and scoots closer to him so they’re pliantly in place, inherently fascinated by the mysterious veil of his past. “Do tell.”

“It’s no one you’d know,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“Fucking _obviously_ , doesn’t mean I’m any less interested.”

Wash presses his lips together and almost considers avoiding the subject altogether, but the words roll out of his chest and off his tongue before he has a second chance to think them over. “Maybe my father. Good for nothing asshole, fucked off somewhere when I was thirteen; used to go on drunken rampages and eventually overdosed on five-too-many heroine injections.” A dramatic pause, tightens his grasp on his rifle. “Not before he carved up my mother’s face with a broken beer bottle, though. And, _Jesus_ , you should _see_ the scar he gave me when he”—the Freelancer in gray pauses, shakes his head—“never mind, I don’t want to think about it anymore. That was in the past.”

“I’ve seen you naked, I’ve seen the scars.”

“The one on the back of my hip.”

“Huh.” South adjusts herself and leans against his back, her head to the depression of his shoulders, gazing up at the stars. He doesn’t mind that she’s using him as a pillow, of sorts. Kind of enjoys the heat she radiates. “I don’t think I could off either of my parents. They were good people.” She traces her name in the sky with her fingertips, wonders if maybe they’re thinking about her too. “But somewhere along the way, they forgot how to love a person for who they are. You’d think it would have ruined me, but North probably got the worst of it.”

“I thought North was Mr. Perfectly Wonderful.”

“He is. But that meant – to them, at least – I wasn’t so astounding. They used to hold us equally, but by the time we were fifteen I had become the family disappointment, and North was always so guilty about our parents comparing me to him.” She folds her hands over her stomach. Exhales. “He tried to kill himself, you know.”

“ _North_? Really?”

“He was exhausted, stressed. Tired of the strain between us because of competition, hated how he was constantly pressured into getting the best grades and expected to join every single sports team. One day he opened the medicinal cabinet, took as many pills as he could choke on – I was out at a friend’s house, doing some stupid senior portfolio project, but I wasn’t feeling good and drove home early. Found the selfish fucker passed out on the floor.” She hesitates, pushes the memory from her head. “I feel guilty about it sometimes, not that it matters. It’s disgusting how parents can drive their own kids to suicide.”

Wash absorbs the story, changes the note. “Have you ever thought about being a parent?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m serious. When this is over, maybe settling down and having a family…”

“I don’t think I’m the settling type. North is though. He’d make a good father.”

“But if _you_ were, is all I’m saying.”

She rolls her eyes. “In that case, I wouldn’t want to be like my parents. Playing favorites all the time. I also want a daughter, boys are so awful.”

“I’d want a boy,” Wash admits. “A little Wash Jr.”

“Ugh, hopefully he’s _nothing_ like you. Kid’s gonna need backbone to survive.”

“I have a backbone.”

“You’re a literal fucking _dork_ , Washington. Everyone knows you got bullied in middle school.”

“Braces aren’t funny!”

South laughs for the first time tonight, a genuinely sincere and gentle timbre that clashes with her typically stoic attitude. He hasn’t heard it in weeks. Nearly melts. “And when _I_ was in middle school, I got expelled for breaking some kid’s teeth.”

“My guess is that nobody picked on you.”

“Not if they wanted to end up like the others.”

“Your kids would be tough as nails, like you I bet.”

“And they’d better be as cute as me too.” She sighs wistfully, gradually collapsing back into their reality. Moves to her original spot so she can grasp the sniper rifle once more and relocate their target. “Too bad we won’t make it through this, huh?”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s all a matter of a slip in the field.”

Wash finds that soldier from the east wing as he kicks over some stray pebbles. Careens his head up to gaze into the sky. “You know the worst part on being assigned a mission with you?” he begins again. “If I don’t return with you in perfect health, North’s gonna put me ten feet under. So you have nothing to worry about – I’ll jump in the way of the next bullet that’s fired at you, because at least death would be a much better alternative to what _North_ would do to me if you got hurt.”

“And what if the next bullet that’s fired at me is yours?”

He shrugs passively, looks at her looking at him, realizing suddenly just how close they are. The heat of their proximity, the tantalizing gloss of her visor. Can almost feel her intensity through the thickness of the armor, of the space between and the stars above. “Then I’d better hope North isn’t around to break my neck.”

_“South, Wash, do you read me?”_

“Copy that, Carolina,” Wash chirps back, shifting away from South. “Go ahead.”

_“Target confirmed, take the shot when the lights go dark. York’s at the panel now.”_

“I’ve got visual,” South remarks, training her sights on the man seated at his desk through the window. From this distance she can still make out the little pin on his uniform, indicating his place in the metal-mining company. The detail in his crimson tie, authoritative, smuggling money from the mysterious group that hired Project Freelancer to run this operation. “Ready when you are.”

“You know,” Wash starts unsurely, “I think I could marry you.”

“You have issues.”

“I’m being serious.”

“ _Ugh_. Like I told you before, I’m not the settling down type.”

“No one says you have to settle down to get married. Hell, if anything, we could be some kind of space-marine version of Bonnie and Clyde. Which sounds like the _coolest_ thing, of all time.”

The lights within the building structure flicker and plummet everything into darkness. South switches to night vision, gazes around to locate their target in his office. Frantic, looking around for something, possibly thinks – ( _knows_ ) – he’s under attack. “Taking the shot,” she relays into her intercom. Pulls the trigger. The target drops as the bullet streamlines through the air on an acute, descending whistle and punctures the glass window, piercing through his exposed forehead. His body lurches, hits the floor.

“Nice,” Wash comments, watching in mild fascination as the blood explodes across the opposing wall.

_“Good work. Everyone, pack it in and return to the recon point.”_

“Shame,” South utters when she switches out of Carolina’s channel again, “I was just beginning to enjoy our conversation.”

“Maybe we should start volunteering for these missions.”

“ _We_.”

“Space marine assassins Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Jesus Wash, have you ever _seen_ Bonnie and Clyde or do you just like to spew shit out your ass? Wait, _fuck_.”

“What?”

“I forgot,” South says, almost disappointed, “I wanted to shoot that guy in the balls.”

* * *

.

.

.

Perhaps someone’s noticed the alleviation in tension between them – how he’ll sit himself across from her in the mess hall, how she’ll get comfortable next to him on the couch in the lounge after dinner, how their teamwork has gradually and steadily improved across the last few weeks (still nothing compared to the scores of the twins, but it’s still impressive) – but no one’s mentioned anything about it, at least not to them. South considers this a positive outcome, given how they retain a professional front in the field, hands off almost all times. Save the flirting and the kissing and the subsequent foreplay for their rare private hours. Even when they aren’t fucking around Wash is good about giving her space, pretends that they’re just friends chatting about casual friendly things.

Still, a handful of the Freelancers are attentive and intuitive and _smart_. Florida notices the little details. Will try to make a wise-crack about Wash’s eagerness to get paired up with South in the field, but otherwise keeps his mouth shut and figures that it’s none of his business. Texas tends to wander about randomly and has walked in on them standing a little too close, never says much aside from “Just lookin’ for someone.” Takes her leave, probably doesn’t give two shits to be perfectly honest.

South doubts that North of all people is aware of what’s going on. He’s always had a habit of screening her dates through intimidation and chatter the same way she would do for him, and given that he’s still peachy with Wash, she counts him out. Maine might know; he’s an observer, and what he’s observed is processed through Sigma when they share thoughts and memories. Odds are, Sigma doesn’t consider their relationship (if that’s what you want to call it) to be worth any significant value and scraps it.

South never thought to give _CT_ any credit for her own perception.

“You think I don’t know.”

South blinks wearily, rolls onto her side to peer over her bed. CT is gazing up in return. Has a gentle smile despite the serious accusation, shifts around to offer up a freshly opened pack of cigarettes. “Don’t know what?” South replies with feigned disinterest and lazily threads her arm through the lower gap in the rail guard to pluck out a single stick and the accompanying lighter from the inner pocket.

“About what you’ve been doing.”

She sits up, tries to ignite the cigarette. Realizes the lighter is dead and scales down the ladder to perch on the bed beside CT. “Hey, light’s out.” They connect the tips of their cigarettes and South pulls on hers twice to drag out enough embers to spark it to life. Draws back. Tosses the deceased lighter across the room in the general direction of the trash can and hears it ricochet off the wall instead.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, Em. I’m very disappointed.”

“You know I absolutely fucking _hate_ when people are vague about things, Connie. What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and Wash.”

A passive shrug, a sarcastic scoff. “Pfft, oh, _that_. It was never much of a secret.”

CT giggles and takes a drag before tapping the ashes into the ceramic tray on the coffee table pulled up flush against the side of the bed. If it wasn’t for the ventilation system their room would smell like an overwhelming barbeque grill, but even on the worst days only the distinct scent of charcoal remains as a faint afterthought. South kind of likes the smell, CT doesn’t however. Is trying to quit, really. Only lights one up when she’s stressed or having problems falling asleep after a rough mission.

“I never saw Wash being your type,” CT says, passes over the tray so South can tap out her ashes.

“We’re not _together_ , C.”

“Bullshit.”

“Up yours, pushy bitch.”

Laughs at that. Inhales, blows smoke out through her nose. “So you two are just fucking for shits and giggles or something?” Glances at South who seems to turn her stare elsewhere. CT’s casual smirk drops as she sucks in another drag. “That’s a shame. He’s always had a massive crush on you.”

“His loss.”

“Em…” Sighs. “If you’re going to fuck him, at least try not to fuck _with_ him, okay?”

South pretends that the comment doesn’t bother her and takes two smokes to distract the itch pushing up under her skin. She crushes out her cigarette on the tray, pushes it across the table. Sprawls out in the darkness with the distinct burn still brimming in her lungs. If she concentrates she can still feel that phantom ecstasy of their sex, his fingers finding all the right places and pressing against stimulated nerves, the taste of his kisses, the lemon ardor in his hair, and the tickle of his thumb running over her scars. It’s all subsumed by ash, swallowed by the searing fires in her chest.

“Like I said, C – his loss.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just experimenting with back story headcanons at this point. Who's ready for some drama next chapter?
> 
> Follow me on tumblr (officialtrashbin) for my unconditional love for agent south and my updates on my writing.


	4. The Lying of Agent Connecticut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I finally decide to update, and South struggles with everything.

  1. _The Lying of Agent Connecticut_  
     
     
       
     
     
  



They receive orders for a mission tomorrow, but South’s occupied with other things. Namely, Wash.

Maybe she should have ended this before it got so out of hand, and she tells herself she can quit at any time (same with cigarettes, but look how far she got with that); yet here she is, pinned back against the far wall of a forgotten hall, pacing herself as she grinds against Wash with little regard for who might see them. Their teeth clash at some point and she tastes blood, uncertain if it’s from his lips or hers. He had run into her on her exit from the locker room, received a side-long look that had initially been reciprocated as “we need to talk”, ended here with whatever the fuck they’re doing.

Privacy would be better but he isn’t complaining. Kind of enjoys how she growls when he locks her arms over her head with one hand and worries bruises into the alabaster skin of her neck. She runs her knee up the inside of his thigh and finds his erection. Kisses him again.

“I think you’re really pretty,” he blurts, nearly slapping himself in the face in return.

She rolls her eyes and exhales a disgruntled scoff. Her heartbeat is like lightning, her presence is a storm, her eyes are burning gorges of fire and her soul is an iron vice. And still she acts like she’s irritated by the compliments that can’t possibly define her, in all her simplicity and all her complexity.

“You’re such a fucking weirdo, Wash.”

“Sorry, I’m just…on edge.”

South slides out of his grip and tucks one hand down the front of his pants. Grasps him firmly and he stutters in her palm. “I can tell.”

“Mm, _ah_ – I meant about the mission.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty, then?”

She’s mocking him and he knows this but she’s lethal with her touch and most of his thoughts are incoherent messes. “Of course you are, I just _meant_ – you _know_ what I – do that again.” She strokes him outwards, sliding her palm along the thick underside of his erection, twists a little as she glides back down. Leaves him breathless, her name hesitating on the swollen plushes of his lips.

“Your room?”

He nods like a dumbfounded child. Still dazed. Hopelessly head-over-heels. “Definitely – yes, totally. I mean, only if you want to, no rush – unless you are rushing.”

South rolls her eyes but quite honestly, she doesn’t think she can get him to move fast enough.

    

     

    

     

   

It’s four hours until the day shift cycle begins, but South hasn’t slept at all.

The Freelancers have public data in the Mother of Invention’s system that ranks them for both their own reference and the Director’s personal access, based on a scale of 20 points. Physical evaluation allows them to keep track of histories of injuries, both in the field or otherwise; mental evaluation indicates how well an individual Freelancer is handling the stress, pressure, and subsequent scarring of the job, and it comes as no surprise to South that she’s starting to drop into critical range. The rest of the data is strewn into categories of medications, summarized reports, and warning signs of potential regressions.

Crosses her legs on the top of the table and reaches for the lighter discarded near her feet.

South isn’t generally concerned for the well-being of others. In particular, she’s inherently aware that every Freelancer can handle themselves in the field, but takes her time tabbing through their files regardless. Maine seems to be on watch for possible symptoms of PTSD, from the Sarcophagus mission that nearly left him a pile of ground meat. Texas’s file comes up as unauthorized and then folds itself back into the system. Strange. But not surprising. Her brother’s page labels itself as outdated, due for another exam. Wash is apparently fine and dandy (aside from the anger issues of course), which is almost too good for this kind of job, if it weren’t for agent Florida appearing flawless in both categories.

Brings up CT. Last update, six months ago.

South leans back against the rest of the fold-up chair and taps to her own file. Her basic information is displayed. Last update, four weeks ago. The physical evaluation indicates that she’s healed from every major injury received in the field, including the two knife wounds on her face and lower torso, both from engaging in hand-to-hand combat with some skilled mercenary on her very first mission (he ended up escaping, and she wonders sometimes if he’s still for hire).

Brings up CT again. Lights a cigarette.

_You and North have been lying to me for very different reasons._

South glances over at the soldier shining her helmet on her bed. Turns off the tablet, taps out some ashes. It’s been over a month since the last outsourced transmission was detected, but South doesn’t rest easy knowing how uncomfortable CT is with the topic. She considers how odd North behaved when she had relayed the information, equates it to something that might be a private matter – or, quite honestly, it’s simply none of her business.

But North doesn’t keep secrets, not from her, at least.

CT hasn’t said much since they received their new mission, nor has she gotten more than a few hours of sleep. She just sits there, wiping at her polished gear, gaze locked on something distant. Finally she speaks, her tone barely above a decibel that could actually pass a whisper. “We’re friends, right South?”

South shrugs, takes a drag. “Sure, we’ve only been rooming together without incident for the last three years and you call me by my nickname like we’re borderline dating. I’d consider that a _very_ explicit degree of friendship.”

“Stop. I’m being serious.”

South’s never considered calling CT her friend, even though the words fit just fine on her tongue, but she plays along primarily for the sake of the conversation. “What’s wrong?”

“I think you’re my best friend. You know that, don’t you?”

“Connie, what’s wrong.”

“Which do you think is worse: being the person who hurts their friend, or being the person who lets their friend get hurt?”

“It’s way too late to be asking me this shit.” South crushes out her dwindling cigarette in the ash tray and pads over to CT’s bed, setting herself down on the mattress without invite. “Look, Connie, I don’t care what you’ve gotten yourself into, alright? Just quit being dodgy and vent if you need to, you know I hate people who beat around the fucking bush.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

“Whatever.” South tucks herself under the sheet, pulling it up over her shoulders. CT sets the helmet down, joins her a moment later. Tucks up towards the wall with her back pressed pliantly against South’s. They’ve shared beds countless times before, not that CT really cares given South’s inability to sleep alone, but this time is a little different. Feels almost comfortably tense. South wonders if she’s just paranoid. Worried about ghosts that aren’t there. “You know what, I think I’ve decided.”

“Hm?”

South rolls over, casually traces a line over every notch of her roommate’s spine. “The worst kind of friend is the one who _lies_ to you, because there’s never any way of knowing whether they really are trying to protect you, or if they’re simply using you.” She feels CT tense beneath her fingertips. Knew that response would elicit a reaction. Knows now, for a fact, that the agent in brown has been hiding something. “So are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“…I…I can’t.”

“Then I’m getting sleep.”

“I’m sorry, South.”

Apologies are just lies. She doesn’t say that though.

    

     

     

     

      

Four hours before the drop and South finds herself drinking her third cup of black coffee today, alone with her brother in the silence of a normally occupied mess hall, buzzing with caffeine. He sits across from her with his arms crossed over the table top, a mild degree of worry chiseled into his expression. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“It’s going just about as well as everything else on this goddamn project. It all feels like heaven until you fuck it all up.” She sips the last of her drink, sets the cup down with an imperative thunk that echoes through the room. “So what do you want?”

“Come again?”

“You called me in here. You want something.”

“To spend time with my wonderful sister.”

“Get my dick out of your mouth. What the hell’s going on?”

North glances around, as if the walls might attempt to scooch forward and overhear the conversation. Leans in. “Remember the oil platform and the Insurrection building you infiltrated with Wash and Florida?”

“How could I forget either? You and I got _shot_.”

“Well, the information was stored on that single drive.”

“It was.”

“Which is now missing.”

South slams her cup down, casts him a glare. “Shit North, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because we don’t know who took it, and I was afraid of jumping to conclusions. The Director brought it up with Carolina, who mentioned it to York, who in turn…told me.” He sits back again, crosses his arms over the tabletop. “Apparently it went missing shortly after Wash was called in about the transmissions. When you got pulled in after him, I was worried because that meant, for certain, that another Freelancer took it.”

South’s expression softens into concern. Into worry. “And you think I have something to do with the missing file card?”

“Of course not. But…I do think you know something I don’t.”

South scoffs, but she’s unnerved by the stern, almost doubtful expression carved into North’s normally jovial features. “Fucking hell North, do you ever think before you speak or does your brain produce nothing but bullshit? What could I _possibly_ know?”

“Who took it.”

“But I don’t.”

“But you do.”

“Jesus North, I _don’t_. Why the fuck are you acting like this?”

North leans in again, grasps her hand. Gives her the most downright terrified look he has ever mustered. Her heart drops into her stomach at the realization that there’s something very, very wrong with this, and that in the back of her mind, maybe she’s the one who’s been lying all along. “Because this is _serious_ , South. I need to know that you’re not involved with something that might get you killed.”

“I’m not. I honestly have no fucking idea what’s going on”—she snaps her arm back, jabs her finger at him accusingly—“and I don’t know where you get off thinking I do!”

“Don’t you understand, South?” North says, his frustration ebbing into his voice. “There’s a _traitor_ in our ranks.”

“And it’s not _me_.”

“ _I_ know that, the Director _doesn’t_.”

“Well, chill the fuck out! I’m not hiding anything. You know I tell you everything.”

“ _Everything_.”

She’s exasperated by this stupid conversation. “Yes, North.”

“So _Wash_ doesn’t count as everything?”

South casts her gaze to the side. Oh. “No, he doesn’t. What I do in private is none of your concern, especially since I’m not dating him and we’re keeping the engagements as professional as possible. Seriously North, is _that_ what all this shit is about?”

North holds up in hands in surrender. “That’s absolutely not it, I just…wasn’t expecting _Wash_.”

“Not my first choice either.” South settles back. Casually drags her shoulders up into a passive shrug. “To be honest, Wyoming is more my type. I’m into guys old enough to pass as a sugar daddy.”

“ _South_.”

“I’m just fucking with you. But, hey, Wash isn’t that bad. Decent kisser, average size, damn good with his fingers.”

“I don’t need to know that,” North interjects, laughing for the first time since they entered the room.

South smiles, easing the tension between almost immediately, but it gradually ebbs into a blanked look of utter indifference. “Look, give it a week. You know me, North. What has _ever_ lasted when I’ve been involved?”

“Well, this transmission investigation has been going on for months.”

“How many times do I have to fucking say it? _I’m not involved_.”

“God _dammit_ South-!”

She shoots up to her feet, slamming her hands down on the table top. The cup jolts. Lands on its side. Rolls and bumps against the violet plating of North’s forearm. The scowl on her face isn’t her typical vehemence, instead it borders a raw apathy that unnerves North, lets him know that he’s crossed a line and he withdraws, barely able to meet her seething gaze. There’s always been a point between her anger and her pain, and the latter is the one emotion she doesn’t express by yelling or breaking.

That’s the one that hurts the most.

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“Who has the drive, South?”

“I said I’m _done_.”

She storms out without a single look back and the last thing she hears is North, muttering her name one final time, utterly defeated.

She hates lying to him. Hates when he knows she’s lying.

     

         

              

            

         

“C. Hey, stop.”

The agent in brown hesitates midstride halfway down the corridor and only when South steps within arm’s length does she remember it’s safe to breathe. Agent Connecticut goes rigid, doesn’t face her friend—(if that’s what they really are)—and allows herself a second to recollect her nerves. “Don’t sound so troubled,” she tries to say jovially but the humor fails on her lips. Comes across as blatant sarcasm. “What’s up, Em?”

South checks her inner HUD feed, makes sure the video is recording. Needs to know the truth. “Did you send those transmissions, CT?”

CT scoffs but she doesn’t bother to move, to turn and face the only person she can rely on and it doesn’t surprise South in the slightest. She’s always had trust issues. Dodgy and reserved and suspicious of the shadows on the walls. “Does it matter? What are _you_ going to do about it?”

“…Who did you send them to?”

“South, either shut up or turn me in. Either way, I’m not doing this”—she begins to pace down the hall, leaving South in her wake—“not with you.”

“Jesus Christ almighty, Connie, look at me! What did you do?”

She keeps going, unforgiving and sheltered. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t respond. South thinks she doesn’t want to know the truth for the sake of the project, she just wants CT to _trust_ her. Wants to know that their friendship isn’t as meaningless as an empty tomb (that something of value had once been there, buried).

“I’m your _best friend_ , C. Tell me what you did.”

But CT just keeps walking.

“Connie, _look at me_!”

The door to the eastern bridge slides shut behind agent Connecticut and South punches the wall.

The feed ends.

           

         

           

          

          

One hour before the drop, and the lounge is thankfully quiet. Something in Wash’s gut hasn’t settled properly after last night. He hasn’t slept well as an immediate result and he doesn’t suspect he’ll find any comfort in the silence of the lounge, especially not with a mission’s deadline crawling at him with the persistence and steady, gradual determination of a shambling corpse. Although he enters with his stomach already tensed into a knot so tight he might get ulcers, he finds that South’s presence jumpstarts his body’s sudden desire to flip entirely inside out.

She’s smoking a cigarette. He’s not surprised. But she is shaking, which does offer a degree of shock value. Her hands quiver and she exhales just as unsteadily, and it unnerves him because he’s never seen her like this. Coming undone at the seams. Verging towards what might be a justifiable mental breakdown.

“South?”

She crushes the butt of the cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. Picks up the discarded pack and fishes out a fresh stick. He finds his way over to her as she fumbles with her lighter, grasps her hand, takes the cancer stick away like he’s actually doing her a fucking favor.

“South, stop it. You’re worrying me.”

Her glare is hardened over, lost in sapphire starlight, buried under cemented layers of ice and bitter apathy. “Don’t worry for once, will you? It’s just anxiety. Everything fucking sucks right now and I’m…”

She reaches for another cigarette and this time Wash crushes the box in his palm. “I said stop it, South!” Just as suddenly she draws back, gazing up at him with a mildly irritated look. He withdraws. Sighs. “I didn’t – sorry, I honestly – I didn’t mean to snap, just - please, _stop_. You’re _worrying_ me.”

She leans against him. He’s comforting enough that she’s eased by his warmth and the strength in his arms. “Nothing feels right.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” She keeps her head pressed up against the underside of his chin. “How’s Maine?”

“He’s not coming. Still recovering. I stopped into the ward to see him before-”

“CT and North know about us.”

Wash feels the missing pieces of the puzzle click and lock and settle into place all at once. The worry amounts. His strength on her body amplifies and his hands pull her closer, like she’ll fade if he gives her the chance, the crushed cigarette box forgotten on the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to-?”

“I don’t really care what they think,” she replies, finally relaxing into his touch. “I might have broken this whole charade off if I had known sooner, just for the sake of our jobs, but at this point I’ve stopped giving a shit. Some part of me is giving everyone the middle finger just in case they object, another part of me wants to remain in this for what it’s worth.”

“South…”

“I think I just really like you,” she says listlessly.

His breath catches on his ribs, muscles coiling inwards to accommodate to the hitched pulse, like the moment between a heartbeat and a thought process. “S-So…like me as in like _like_?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, Wash.”

“It is okay if I tell you I like _like_ you too?”

She draws back to gaze up at him, her hands on his neck and the underside of his jaw. Guides him down to meet her. For a split second it feels like he’s smiling against her mouth, trembling with anticipation when her fingers dig harmlessly into his skin, his hands quivering slightly as they fixate on her hips to keep her close –

The kiss is brief because the door slides open with a metallic hiss and Carolina appears in the frame, hesitating when the two jump apart like startled deer.

She glances between them, quirks an eyebrow quizzically. “We’re gathering in the bay,” she remarks tonelessly, like she doesn’t really care. And to be honest, she probably figures it’s none of her business. “The drop’s been rescheduled. Let’s go.”

“Coming,” Wash replies bashfully.

“You know something,” South starts as Carolina briskly exits, “we are _really_ fucking bad at this.”

           

           

         

         

          

South wants to say that CT’s anxiety doesn’t bother her, and she attempts to ease the tension with her simple chide of, “Look, if it goes wrong, at worst they’ll drop our names from the board. At least us ladies will be sticking together.” But the lower-tier agent doesn’t respond to the gibes. And something about it bothers South. Like seeing a shadow on the wall when you’re the only one home. Ominous. Unnatural.

Absolutely terrifying.

South also wants to say that the mission is easy, at first; jet packing to the station is a breeze, Carolina tears up the room with a gravity hammer and the twins partner up to gun down some security. Scatter around in the aftermath to find the whereabouts of the Insurrection leader and empty the immediate vicinity of any remaining guards.

She follows her orders and pretends that everything is clicking into place the way a mission should.

“Where the hell is CT?!”

South wants to say she realized her mistake, but she doesn’t look back. After all, best friends don’t betray best friends.

South _wants_ to say that CT is still her best friend.

             

         

           

        

          

Bone Valley is easy enough to navigate, even when South’s mind keeps diverging onto different topics: the whereabouts of CT, the whereabouts of the leader, the motion of space as a still void around her and the sullen atmosphere of the recycling field. She eases on the throttles of her pack so she can lag behind only a few seconds, to help reserve the fuel in the event of an emergency.

Anything can go wrong out here. Georgia knows (knew) that.

Wash pulls back a bit and floats above her – or below her, there’s no such thing as direction in space – gliding to a perfect pace so their visors meet evenly. “Hi there,” he says, “do you happen to have a map? I was navigating this debris field but got lost in your eyes.”

South snorts, definitely not impressed. “That was absolutely _horrendous_.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to _lighten_ the mood.”

“Wash.”

“Have I told you how amazing you are? You’re simply _out of this world_.”

South punches him the shoulder, just hard enough to hurt, and he nearly jettisons off course. “You’ve been talking to York, haven’t you?”

“More like asking for tips.”

“From _York_.”

“I give fantastic advice!” York calls back in his own defense.

North watches them with a piqued curiosity from several paces ahead – South cupping Wash’s jaw, pressing her forehead to his before pulling away and jetting ahead to keep up with the group. North pretends he suddenly isn’t unnerved. North pretends he was never uneasy to begin with.

South has that effect on him.

          

          

        

     

  

_“They’ve outfitted that piece of junk with an explosive!”_

South rockets into the belly of the dropship and North streamlines after her, landing with ease at her side with the same steady synch of experienced professionals. York hurtles into the hold a moment later, cursing under his breath about a close call, about the fact his jet pack was half a minute away from running out of fuel.

Carolina hits the platform. Wash doesn’t.

“Wash, what are you doing?” North calls out into the debris field hurtling in their wake.

_“I don’t want to end up like Georgia!”_

Carolina swears and utilizes her grappling hook to reel him into the dropship by his codpiece. South sidesteps to avoid being barreled over as he slams into the wall at her feet. She kneels down at his side, one hand on his shoulder to keep him upright when he pitches with the movement of the aircraft.

“That was _ballsy_ of you,” she says snidely.

Wash just grins.

479er hits the throttle, careening into open space, as the explosive impacts shrapnel and detonates. The shockwave rocks the ship first. Then the intense flare rams into the craft from behind, nearly blowing them of course, and South can feel the heat of the blast through her helmet.

_“Carolina, report! Did everyone make it back?!”_

The Director’s voice crackles through their intercoms. Carolina recovers on her feet and switches on her channel. “All except CT sir. She’s gone.”

_“Define **gone**.”_

Carolina looks at South who gazes off elsewhere. She can’t possibly bear to tell them what she knows.

(Best friends don’t betray best friends.)

   

   


	5. After the Math, After the Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash is about three chapters away from having Carolina on speed dial. Especially when the tension between the twins finally explodes...

    

      

South hasn’t talked to him in nearly three whole cycles. She cut herself off from everyone, perhaps to take a breather, perhaps because she has no valid form of coping with the trauma of CT's betrayal.

Wash sees her as he normally would, but typically any conversation he attempts to spark is met with a mild glare. 'Leave me alone,' he thinks is what she's trying to convey, so he does. It doesn't stop him from approaching her in training or sitting at her table in the mess hall. But he doesn't push her into opening up, he doesn't push her into talking more than she wants to.

Until he spots her trekking down a west-wing corridor with a worried expression plastered on her face.

“South?”

She freezes in her tracks, keeps her head turned to the floor. There’s something uncharacteristically slack about her normally rigid posture, perhaps resignation, perhaps defeat. His heart sinks into his stomach at the notion. South doesn’t accept defeat. Doesn’t ever stand down in the face of authority or fear. It rattles him the way nothing should, wedges under the surface of his skin.

(Perhaps he gave her too much space when she needed him most?)

“Hey, it’s…” It’s not okay, he knows it’s not. Doesn’t finish his statement. “I’m…You don’t have to…What I’m trying to say is – that, uh…”

“I messed up.”

“You didn’t…”

“I did. She was my roommate, my _friend_ , and I _trusted_ her…I made a mistake, Wash.”

He's relieved she's speaking to him. It's his chance. To make things right. Find his courage. “Look, we all make mistakes-”

“North doesn’t.”

“ _South_ -”

“Just drop it.”

So much for that. Third time's the charm though, right?

He approaches her cautiously, folds his hand in hers. “Is there something I can…do? To make you feel better?”

She pulls her arm back. Steps away. “I’m not in the mood, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Of course not, unless you did want to – but you don’t so it’s not a problem. Not that it _would_ be a problem…”

“I know what you meant.”

Sighs. “You always do. Don’t know why I bother explaining myself.”

South starts pacing down the hall, leaving him in her wake.

“South, wait. I know you want your space, but don’t close yourself off, okay? I’m not going to force you into talking about it, I’m not going to bring it up if you would rather forget it ever happened – I just...want you to trust me.”

“I _trusted_ CT.”

“ _I’m_ not _CT_.”

“Doesn’t make this shit any easier!” she shoots back. Scratches her fingers through her hair, as if she’s annoyed, as if something isn’t right inside her mind and she can’t rid herself of the itch. “Jesus, Wash, sometimes I feel like I get _you_ but you don’t get _me_.”

Wash diverts his gaze. Rubs his hands together nervously. “You know I’m _trying_.”

“And I’m _trying_ not to lose my goddamn mind.”

Without thinking he blurts, “I thought you were going to die.”

South blinks. Passes her quizzical stare in his direction. “Okay but did you read the fine print of our contracts or did you need parental permission when you signed off?”

“This is different,” he responds, gathering his nerves and catching up to her. His eyes are suddenly hardened and steady and he runs the pad of his thumb over her facial scar. This time she doesn’t pull back. “When you got shot, on that mission with Florida. At first it was a typical field injury until I realized you could have _died_.”

South presses her palm to the scar on her torso. “It certainly _feels_ like I’m dying.” Isn’t talking about the scar and he knows it. “What makes this different?”

“That was before I cared. About you. Like really _cared_ cared.” A pause. “Do _I_ mean anything to you?”

“Wash.”

“Answer me.”

She scoffs. “Look, I’m not one for the sentimental cheer-up-a-friend bullshit; to be honest I’m really fucking bad at it, so I’m going to lay it out for you. You’re smart Wash. You’re handsome and have a terrible sense of humor and you have fantastic aim with an automatic combat rifle. But since I’m not a weird gushy person I’m ending my sentiments with that.”

“I liked the handsome part, could you at least continue that?”

“Fuck _off_.”

“In your room or mine?”

South grins. “Fucking hell, Washington. I’m adding persuasive to the list.”

He leans down to kiss her and she lets him.

       

      

      

    

     

Either way, they wind up in her room.

Most of CT’s stuff – from what he can tell, at least – has already been removed. Not even the bunk remains. In place is a single bed just barely big enough to fit them both, as if the Director doesn’t plan on giving her a new roommate anytime soon. Sheets smell a bit like smoke when she throws him down naked on his back.

She slides off her underwear and his throat goes dry.

He’s never considered actually fucking her. But maybe they’re beyond using the term fucking because it’s something more. And he doesn’t assume it’ll last in the long run but for now it’s bliss, for now it’ll do and for now it gives him purchase in a reality as close to perfect as he can get.

She straddles him. Kisses him. “Don’t think about it.”

He tries not to, not when she’s naked above him, moving with him, pressing her weight into his hips and digging her nails into his shoulders. Not when he’s running his fingers along the rim of her labia, feeling her clench in anticipation and her body shudder in his arms. Not when he easily works into her, kissing her sensitive spots.

It’s difficult not to think about.

“You can’t _think_ about it,” she says more forcefully this time, rolling her hips down, one arm around his neck, the other grasping the back of his head. “You have to _feel_ it. Feel _me_ ”—she clenches, earns a gasp, his nails digging into her back and dragging downwards the way she likes—“feel _this_. Feel _us_.”

He doesn’t think about it, only focuses on how beautiful she is. It eases him and enthralls him so suddenly he says her name just for the sake of hearing her moan.

He rocks up, gently at first, adjusting to the sensation. Shivers when she groans into his ear. Takes the liberty of rolling them both over so her head’s in the pillow and he’s driving into her at an easier angle. She adapts quickly, wraps her legs around his waist and anchors her hands to his back. “Don’t be afraid,” she utters, rocking her hips up with every thrust. He loses himself in her, in the blazing heat and the intensifying breaths and the bleeding scratches as she marks up his back, bites his neck, his shoulders.

He isn’t afraid, not with her. He doesn’t think, not with her. And perhaps being with her is just right, so right and honest and perfect.

“Wait, fuck I’m gonna-!”

She suddenly stiffens and orgasms and he follows immediately. They climax together. His mind is blanked by the ecstasy, in her muttering his name, her hands clutching him desperately and his breath suspended in the apex of his chest –

For a long while in the aftermath, when he thinks his head has finally cleared, they just lay there, shoulders touching, her eyes half-lidded as she drifts gradually towards sleepy. “Was it good?” he murmurs at some point, not quite sure if the quiet has persisted for minutes or hours.

“Do you need reassurance?”

“I mean…feedback is nice, yes.”

“Look, I’ve slept with people who have actually _failed_ to make me come. So for your first time, you’re better than most.”

“Oh. And that’s good?”

“Yes.”

“But I could be better.”

“Practice makes perfect. Besides, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy myself.” She grins at him, genuine and sincere. “I just kind of really like you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hey…I’m sorry about CT.”

South props herself up on one elbow so she can cup the side of his face. Runs the pad of her thumb over his five-o-clock shadow. “Traitor’s a traitor, Wash; nothing to be sorry about.”

His eyes follow the scar on her face up to the curve of her cheek, over to the solemn sheen in her eyes. He wishes, more than anything, that he could see this side of South more often; calm and level-headed, not controlled by her despair. By her unyielding anger. By her misplaced, subsequent guilt. “She was your friend,” he says quietly.

“Yours too.”

“Not like you.”

“It doesn’t matter right now. Nothing fucking matters, Wash.”

He hesitates. “Does it matter that I just now realized we totally forgot to use a condom?”

She scoffs what could pass as a dry laugh and shakes her head. “I have pills for a reason.”

“Oh. That’s good then.” Seems to consider this, glances at her expectantly. “So…in that case, about practice…”

She pulls him over for another kiss. And just like that she's back.

        

    

    

* * *

 

   

      

     

Finding CT isn’t as difficult as South anticipated but is _definitely_ more tedious than she thought.

Several weeks-worth of dead ends, investigations, more dead ends and accumulating tensions have finally compiled into one last attempt to find the traitorous agent Connecticut. There’s two facts they leave in this mission debriefing: CT has been working against them for years; CT has been working with the _Insurrection_ all that time. However, every bit of information they’ve decrypted has finally led them to an Insurrectionist outpost near a colony in the more forbidden outreaches of space.

Expecting a fight, they deploy South, North, Carolina, and Wash.

They don’t get a fight. In fact, the outpost is _abandoned_.

“Scanners aren’t picking up anything,” North says as he and South move in order down the western sector of the outpost, nestled in the mountainous ruins directly upwind of the nearest colony. “They must’ve cleared out a while ago.”

 _“Or knew we were coming,”_ Carolina replies over the intercom _. “Stay alert.”_

At the maw of the corridor is a hall that splits two ways. North signals to his twin that he’s moving left – and South makes a turn right. Pauses. Glances up.

There’s a trail of wires sticking out of the crack in a loose wall panel, leading up into the ceiling. South analyzes the direction of the cords and begins tracing the length, down the path and into an unoccupied room.

The computer across the room is hooked up to a grid. Still logged in. She paces over to it and skims the contents of the feed on the screen.

And much to her immediate chagrin, she presses her fingertips to her intercom.

“So what if I said that this place is detonated, I just found a five-megaton bomb, and we have a minute to escape?”

 _“What?!”_ Carolina exclaims.

“Yeah, this place is a fucking set up!”

_“Fall back! Get your asses out of there!”_

“Don’t get your thong in a twist, I’ll disarm it,” South replies as she kneels before the front hatch, popping open the grid to peer into the lower canopy. The wires are crossed and mingled with an expert precision, too thickly encompassed around the core for her to safely reach in and tug out the heart without tripping the explosion. “Besides, the whole place is connected to pockets of explosives all controlled from here. We’re better off if I disconnect it.”

_“South! Goddammit South if you don’t get out of there-!”_

“You’ll what?” she jeers, delving through the assorted core. “Tell daddy to drop my points?”

_“You’ve never had this kind of time-sensitive training!”_

_“She’s got it.”_

“Doesn’t matter if I’ve got it, North. Thing’s set to blow in half a minute. That’s not enough time to escape.”

 _“You have your equipment, right?!”_ Wash calls.

“The shield? Without an AI?”

_“North did it.”_

“Either way I run the risk of dying.”

Carolina answers next. _“You’ve got be fucking – abort the mission! We’ll come get you. South?! AGENT SOUTH?!”_

“Shut up, Carolina, I can’t focus with you screaming in my goddamn ear!”

_“I’m telling you she has it.”_

She switches off her main channel, sifts through the mess. Begins to slice through the wires corresponding with the trigger engine and the inner clock. She’s rusty in her technique but it’s enough. It’ll get her somewhere or she’ll die a speck of stardust in a cosmos with a sick sense of humor.

15.

Shit. No, wrong wires.

12.

It wouldn’t hurt to say some last words.

10.

There. Found the right ones. It’s gotta be the right ones.

7.

Too late to regret anything now.

3.

Finds the wire she needs. Holds on to a glimmering memory of Wash, for some reason.

2.

Slices the threading.

    

    

    

   

   

The timer drags to a halt on 1. She steadies her breathing, switches her com back on. “All clear.”

_“Next time I tell you to abort the mission you’d better goddamn abort it.”_

_“Very nicely done, sis.”_

_“If I die on the job it’s because you gave me a heart attack.”_

South exhales, rises to her feet. Across the room is the main computer system, but when she breaks through the firewall and into the main frame, she finds exactly what she hadn’t been hoping for.

“Hey, ‘Lina?”

_“Go ahead South.”_

“What if I told you I know where CT is?”

_“…Go on.”_

The information rolls across her HUD like a creeping plague. “And what if I told you she’s planning on selling her armor and the information she took from the Director?”

_“Alright team, get back here on the double. We’re leaving!”_

South rams her fist into the control panel, punching cleanly through and into the lower body, just to expel her pent up frustration. Doesn’t feel any better. Then again, she rarely does.

     

     

   

* * *

 

      

     

      

“Agent South.”

“…Director.”

The briefing called for _only_ her directly after the mission. It doesn’t make much sense, at first – how the Director confiscates her helmet, doesn’t bring up any information about the mission or the reward points for completing it without screwing up this time.

She diverts her gaze onto the Counsellor, who’s compliantly watching from one end of the room. Doesn’t speak. Merely _observing_.

She then glances at her helmet on the table, the storage port plugged into the projection, the screen frozen on a video frame. South’s heart drops into her stomach as she immediately, all too late, realizes what this meeting is about.

_How did they find out?_

The Director wordlessly presses his finger tip to the duplicated image on the table’s projector and the video begins its automated playback.

_“Did you send those transmissions, CT?”_

_“Does it matter? What are you going to do about it?”_

_“…Who did you send them to?”_

_“South, either shut up or turn me in. Either way, I’m not doing this. Not with you.”_

The Director pauses the feed. His glare rises to South gradually, leering behind fatal frames, and she’s suddenly aware of the tension in the room. Of how she’s alone with him. Unnerved by his glare and the discomfort in his posture. “You knew about this?”

“I wasn’t positive, I didn’t want to jump conclusions-”

“You cost us an entire suit of _armor_ , agent South Dakota!”

South clenches her fists, slams them down on the table to make her anger imperative. “I _trusted_ her, what was I supposed to do?!”

“Enough!”

South flinches back. Snaps her mouth shut. Clenches her fist and waits for the quiet to subsume the atmosphere. Still the Counsellor watches, observing, typing up his notes with one hand onto his stupid little psychologist’s tablet.

The Director has deflated enough to calmly address her now. “As punishment for your careless insubordination I’m dropping half the points from the mission.”

“Wait, you can’t just-!”

“I can do whatever I wish. Do you have a problem with my position of authority, agent South, or would you prefer if I dropped you from this project altogether?”

She snaps her jaw shut once again. Goddammit. Goddamn _him_. After a moment of terse quiet she relents. “…I’m sorry for my insubordination, _sir_.”

“I do _not_ want your apologies. _Apologies_ will not bring back agent Connecticut’s equipment. _Apologies_ will not bring back the information she stole. She is trying to expose project Freelancer and she might very well just _sell_ some of the most dangerous enhancements to date. So you tell me, what are you really apologizing for? Is it for constantly screwing up each and every single assignment I’ve given you, or is it for covering the tracks of a person who didn’t even trust you enough to tell you about her plan?”

“Both, sir.”

“I want _results_. Maybe you should start shadowing your brother around, he’s the only one of you who can seem to do _anything_ right.”

South has gone numb, simply absorbs his words like a sponge. “Yes sir,” she mutters.

He unplugs the helmet and tosses it to her. She catches it, tucks it under her arm. The weight offers no means of comfort.

“Perhaps I would have dropped _all_ of your points, had you not gathered such valuable information.” There’s a lapse of silence that, this time, finally exudes brittle calm in the wake of potential calamity. “You are _dismissed_. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the cycle.”

    

     

    

    

   

The rage ebbs into despair, into anxiety and regret and absolute, fucking hatred. She’s trembling with anger as she storms down the corridor heading for her room, perhaps to find some peace in the quiet, in knowing that when she returns CT will be nothing but another memory to repress.

“South!”

She swells with displeasure when North and Wash appear up ahead, the latter rushing up to meet her. “Wyoming and Maine are having the coolest training session of all time. You should come watch.”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Washington.”

“Jesus, South, have you ever considered not being a bitch for more than five seconds?”

Something in her snaps. _Breaks_. Fragile as thin glass and just as dangerous when falling apart. She slams him back against the wall with a renewed surge of anger. “Take this seriously, Washington!”

He throws his hands up defensively. “Easy! Easy. I’m not trying to provoke you. It’s just a joke. Just a joke, okay?”

“You’ve got some goddamn nerve-!”

She barely recognizes that North’s intervened until his hands are on hers, guiding her away from Wash. “ _Whoa_ , whoa, take it easy.”

“And _you_ ,” she snaps, slapping his hands down, “I absolutely fucking _hate_ you.”

“Time out,” North says in bewilderment, “what the _hell_ has gotten into you?”

“Absolutely fucking nothing! I’m just so _tired_ of this – of you being mister perfect every waking moment of the goddamn day! Why don’t you do everyone a favor and choke on pills again, _North_ , at least you won’t be a fucking problem anymore!”

North goes rigid, but at least he’s gone silent.

South suddenly realizes the words have slipped and her hands press over her mouth, too little too late, attempting to choke them down again. He takes a half step back, again when she reaches for him.

“I just don’t get it,” he mutters, “I just don’t get why nothing I ever do is good enough for you.”

South feels the unbridled rage rising just as easily. Broils first in her gut and then explodes through her chest. “I never asked for your help, Emmett! I never asked for _you_ and I certainly never asked to be your goddamned _shadow!_ ”

“Maybe if you considered picking your friends better, I wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Don’t act like you deserve a fucking treat for being a complete asshole!”

“God _damn_ you, South!”

“Age before beauty, you fucking prick!”

It’s the angriest Wash has ever seen North and he almost considers radioing Carolina for backup. Panicked, beyond shock and not yet registering the feat, instead he steps between them, cutting them off to ease the situation. “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you two? Let’s all just take a minute-”

They _both_ shove him back. So much for that.

_“Shut up Wash!”_

_Uh oh._

“You know what?” North seethes. “Fuck you, how’s that? I’m getting real tired of being your emotional punching bag because you can’t handle a single fucking thing that goes wrong! God forbid the universe actually comes to an end!”

“I never _asked_ you to be my punching bag! Your fat ass _head_ is always in my goddamn way!”

The arguing blows up into a scale of each participant shouting at the other, over the other, accusations and confusion and venting and all at once an acute whistle silences them in a flourish. Carolina is several paces away with a bewildered York at her side, and her glare could freeze hell over. Wash is the only one who bothers to acknowledge their presence with a quick glimpse before returning to the standoff between the twins.

“What the hell is going on?” Carolina snaps.

They don’t respond. Instead they stand in a face-off for a split second that seems to last eternity. Wash is worried by the collapsing foundation before him, crumbling at his feet, grains of sand that slide through his fingers.

“I _hate_ you,” South tells North, bitter and angry and hurting. Always hurting. “I’ve hated you since the day we walked home from the carnival.”

North’s head dips a bit, as if he’s given up looking at her and turned his gaze to the floor.

She storms by her brother without a second glance, hesitates mid-stride. She flips him off as she goes.

North starts off in the other direction and the twins disappear into two completely different parts of the ship, leaving York and Carolina to stand awkwardly with Wash who drops his head into one hand.

_Oh no._

     

    

      

* * *

 

    

    

    

South doesn’t have CT or any real outlet anymore. No AI to attempt to repress her stimulation, no one to care about her vents; training exercises don’t make her feel any better, Maybelle the therapy cow doesn’t offer her much comfort in its silence or chiming bell.

She finds herself in an often forgotten section of the ship’s underbelly, a room packed with crates as heavy and high as they are thick with unyielding metals. Out of armor, she could wail on these better than the punching bags, but in armor she’s capable of leaving welts.

She sits on an overturned carrier and turns her palms down against the surface, tuning in with the vibrations of the nearby engines.

“South?”

She turns her gaze briefly to Wash, realizes he’s been watching her. She’s shaking. “That fucking bitch had the balls to call me her _best friend_. She was just _using_ me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“She _knew_ that I wouldn’t report her if she – she – she used me!”

“South, it’s okay-”

She tromps over to the crate, throws her fist into the face. The metal crumples under her force. Leaves a dent that engulfs her wrist. She pulls out, punches the material again and again, the rage and the hate and the betrayal seeping into every vein like venom. Thinks of cigarettes and dead lighters and nights spent sharing beds when the dreams couldn’t be distinguished from reality. Thinks of midnight snack runs and target practice with weapons too big to be practical and all of it at once, memories and stories and precious moments, converge into the biggest fucking lie South has ever lived.

“She called me her _best friend!”_

“South.”

She recognizes Wash fully now, knows that none of the Freelancers but North have ever seen her break down like this, almost thinks they shouldn’t know about this side of her. The hurt side. The damaged, scared, fragile side. The heat rips through her body before she can stop herself and she throws her entire shoulder into the crate, sending it jolting onto its edge and flipping it right over, nine-hundred pounds of cargo and metal. Nothing hurts. Everything hurts.

Wash gently grasps her shoulders. She winces, but her passion is all but depleted.

“Come here.”

She buries her rage into his chest, arms around his back and her agony turning her tears to fire. Wash gently holds her close, delicate and quietly ushering, “Just let it out.”

“She was my best friend,” South utters, shaking and tired and broken, “and I never meant _anything_ to her.”

“Maybe you did,” he replies. “What she did…it can’t _possibly_ be to hurt us, right? Just to get back at the Director or something?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she mumbles against him, “she’s a traitor. I should have turned her in when I found out she took the drive.” Exhales. “God, I’m so tired of fucking everything up – with my missions, with CT and now with North…”

“Everything North does he does for you.”

“It feels like I’m suffocating. It feels like this stupid goddamn project is tearing us apart.”

Wash nods. “If it…makes you feel any better, I’m glad we’re here. As messed up as everything is, I'm happy. I never would have made all the friends I have now – and I never would have met you.”

“Congrats, your girlfriend is a trigger happy bombshell. Family’s sure gonna love me when I use a plasma rifle to cook the holiday turkey.”

His grasp on her tightens. “Girlfriend?”

She shoves him off and playfully punches him in the chest. “Don’t get all fuckin’ mushy on me. We’re trying to keep it on the down-low, remember?”

“Oh, uh, r-right. Down low. Got it. I love going down-low!”

South just sighs. “Shut the hell up, Washington.”

    

   

   


End file.
